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253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife's Secret, and Fair but 

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[continued on third page of coyer.] 



















































rHAT TERRIBLE MAN 


/ 

By W. E. NORRIS. 


The Prineess Dagomar of Poland. 


By HEINRICH EELBERMANN. 

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NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 37 Vandkwatkr Street, 






THAT TERRIBLE MAN 


CHAPTER I. 

One still, warm, evening in June three persons were seated in the 
drawing-room of a small house in Bayswater listening to a fourth, 
who was playing Schumann to them on a grand piano. They had 
been so sitting tor a quarter of an hour or more, and during the 
whole of that time not one of them had spoken a word: which, it 
will be conceded, is a sufficiently remarkable ciicumstance to deserve 
mention. 

In England, as every one knows, instrumental music is not gener¬ 
ally held to be any obstacle to conversation; and this lack of good 
manners is accounted for in various ways by those who deplore it,, 
some asserting that we are an unmusical nation, others that we are 
too self-conscious to enjoy silence, while others again declare that we 
have inherited a bad habit and cling to it, as we do to most habits, 
bad or good. There is a possible fourth explanation—too ungracious 
a one to be suggested by word of mouth, but which may perhaps be 
allowed to pass in the less personally offensive guise of print. It is 
only that most people play so very badly that they have no claims, 
except those of courtesy, upon anybody’s undivided attention. 

Of course, however, there are brilliant exceptions to this rule; and 
the performer with whom the present narrative is concerned was 
both exceptional and brilliant. She was brilliant in the sense in 
which every consummate possessor of an art may be said to be brill¬ 
iant, although her playiug was not of the kind ordinarily associated 
with that epithet: what was exceptional about her was her touch 
upon the keys. A celebrated riding-mistress is reported to have said, 
in answer to some criticisms upon one of her pupils, “ 1 can teach 
any lady to ride; I can give her a seat, 1 can give her knowledge of 
horses, and 1 can train her to manage them; but neither 1 nor any 
one else can give her hands." Perhaps it is almost equally true that 
the best of music-masters cannot give touch. The long, shapely 
fingers of the young lady who was playing Schumann (and playing 
him With liberties as to time which the disciples of that composer 
might or might not have approved of) had a power of drawing sound 
out of the instrument which is not to be defined, and a power scarce¬ 
ly less rare of striking notes so softly, yet so clearly, that even in the 
most rapid passages there was no effect of slur. 

In appearance, too, she was somewhat exceptional. That she 
should choose to wear her brown hair short and curling in little rings 
over her head was perhaps hardly to be called a peculiarity, since 



6 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


many ladies have latterly adopted a fashion which is not in all cases 
quite so becoming as it was in this; but her wide-open gray eyes, 
her pale complexion and a certain pathetic look about her parted 
lips, made her unlike other girls of twenty. She was thin—too thin 
'for beauty; and indeed her features were somewhat irregular; yet 
she had an attractiveness which can only be called the attractiveness 
of beauty, whether it goes with regular features or not. A physiog¬ 
nomist, watching her constant changes of expression and the bright¬ 
ness of her eyes, and listening to that wonderful playing of heis, 
would not improbably have pionounced her to be consumed by the 
fire of genius; and although he would have been wrong, lie would 
have had very fair prima facie grounds for his opinion. 

As for her auditors, two at least of them did not present the 
aspect of persons whose breasts were likely to be soothed by the 
charms of music. The stout, middle-aged lady, who had dropped 
her tatting on her knee and was heaving great sighs from time to 
time, looked as it it would have come more naturally to her to sigh 
over the misdemeanors of the cook or the housemaid than over any 
subtle harmonies and dissonances, and the young man with the un¬ 
comfortably high collar, who was sitting near her and caressing the 
neat little left foot which rested on his right kuee, would, one might; 
have fancied, have preferred the compositions of Oflenbacli and 
Lecoq to all others. However, they were both appreciative, or seemed 
to be so. The third auditor, a grave, soldierly-looking mau, whose 
age might have been forty and was certainly oyer thirty, was a 
genuine lover of music. He had placed bis chair some little distance 
away from the others and in a line with the key-board, he himself 
being seated at right angles with it. That his emotions were power¬ 
fully stirred by the melody and the rendering ot it was evident 
enough; but it was not less evident, from the fixity of his gaze at 
the performer, wliat particular direction those emotions had taken 
or were likely to take. 

The girl ceased playing rather abruptly; whereupon the young 
man changed his attitude with, it must be confessed, something of 
an air ot relief, and said cheerfully to his neighbor: “ Now, Mrs. 
Patterson, let’s have that ghost story that you promised us.” 

The older man rose, walked slowly to the piano and dropped his 
elbows upon it, looking down upon the girl, who smiled at him. 
“ I.)o you know,” he murmured, r ‘ 1 would almost as soon hear you 
play as hear you talk. That is saying something, isn’t it?” 

She put her head on one side and considered of this speech. “ It 
is certainly saying something,” she answered presently, with a slight 
laugh; *'* but whether it is saying something civil or not I can’t quite 
make out. 1 have noticed that your compliments are often rather 
j ambiguous, Mr. Everard.” 

*“ Are they?” said Mr. Everard. ” 1 suppose that is because they 
are always sincere. 1 just say what I think—and because 1 can’t 
help saying it.” 

‘‘What a good plan! Only perhaps a little embarrassing some 
times. Do you adopt it with everybody?” 

“ No; only with you.” 

There was a pause, during which the girl allowed her fingers to 
roam over the keys. By and by she'dropped her hands into her lap 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 7 

and looked up again at the man who was watching her so intently. 
“ Is that another compliment, I wonder?” 

“ It is, if 3 r ou consider it so,” he said. “ It is so in any case, I 
suppose. It shows, at least, that you exercise a very strong influ¬ 
ence over one fellow-creature.” 

The words did not seem to please her. She frowned and made an 
impatient movement. “ 1 don’t like fellow-creatures who are easily 
influenced,” she said. ‘‘ What is the good of being a man and being 
strong and having plenty of common sense as you have, if one is to 
be influenced against one’s will?” 

“ 1 did not say that it was against my will,” observed the other, 
with a smile; but I own that I doubt whether my will is strong 
enough to resist the sort of influence that 1 mean.” 

“ That is nonsense!” cried the girl, sharply. “ Your will is your 
own; you are nobody’s slave.” Then her mood suddenly changed 
and she broke into a laugh. “ What a fuss about nothing!” she ex¬ 
claimed, rising and shutting up the piano. “ Let us talk of some¬ 
thing else.” 

But Mr. Everard, who, to tell the truth, did not shine greatly as a 
conversationalist, could think of no fresh subject for tne moment; 
and so the attention of both of them was drawn to the other couple. 

“ The facts are beyond the possibility of dispute,” Mrs. Patterson 
was saying, impiessively. ” My friend has told me about it scoses 
of times. She woke up in the middle of the night with a sort of cold 
shudder and a feeling that somebody or something was bending over 
her, and she roused her husband immediately and said, ‘ John, 1 am 
suie that grandmother is dead!’ And of course he began grumbling 
and growling and told her not to bother; but she insisted upon his 
striking a light and looking at the clock. It was exactly five min¬ 
utes past one. Within ten hours of that time she received a telegram 
to say, ‘ Grandmamma died at five minutes past one this morning.’ 
Oh, it is all very well to smile, Mr. Fellowes, but you will hardly 
assert that my friend and her husband agreed to tell me an un¬ 
truth.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Patterson,” said the young man, “ 1 believe it all 
implicitly, and it gives me the most delightful jumps. Tell me an¬ 
other one. ” 

“ Well, there was the case of Admiral Gibbons. On three con¬ 
secutive nights be dreamed that be had got aground off Cape 
llatteras.” 

” xVnd did he get aground off Cape Hatteras?” 

‘‘No; because that would have been impossible, as be was on his 
way home from the Mediterranean station at the time; but no sooner 
hud he landed at Portsmouth than he heard that some money which 
he had invested in an American mine was lost.” 

“ That is most remarkable. I think I like the gory anecdotes best, 
though. The figures dripping with blood and the murdered women 
with their heads under their arms, you know, and all that sort of 
thing.” 

‘‘Mr. Fellowes,” said Mrs. Patterson, ‘‘it is easy for a man to 
laugh at what he cannot understand; but will you try to explain 
these appearances and coincidences? Now I can give you an instance 


THAT TEllllIBLE MAH. 


8 

of supernatural agency which is attested by no fewer than four wit¬ 
nesses, all of them quite above suspicion—” 

“ Hasn’t he heard enough for one night, Aunt Sarah?” interrupted 
the young lady, with a touch of impatience. “ What is it that you 
want to prove?” 

“ Only that there are more things in heaven and earth than are 
dreamed of in Fellowes’s pnilosophy,” said Everard, good-nat¬ 
uredly. 

“ But 1 thought everybody knew that 1” cried the girl. Whereat 
both Everard and Fellowes laughed. 

“ Perhaps 1 had better go away now,” observed the latter humbly. 
“ 1 don’t know why you always snub me so, Miss Denham, because 
1 really don’t require it. It you would sometimes come down upon 
Everard, now, it might be good for him.” 

“Oh, but indeed ” began the girl, with a look of distress, “ 1 
never thought of snubbing you. 1 only meant—” 

“He knows what you meant well enough,” broke in Everard, 
“ and he would have been very angry if he had suspected you of 
meaning to snub him. At any rate, he is quite right in saying that 
we ought to be going away; it i3 nearly half-past eleven.” He 
added in a somewhat lower voice, “ May I call upon} r ou again some 
day this week? 1 can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to me to—to 
hear good music well played.” 

Miss Denham looked amused. Very likely she thought that Mr. 
Everard’s request might have been more flatteringly worded; but 
it is quite equally likely that she did not accept the motive assigned 
in a too literal sense. “ Please come whenever you feel inclined,” 
she answered; “ we are always at home between five and six o'clock. 
Or if you would care to dine with us quietly again, as you have done 
this evening, we should be delighted to see you.” 

The two men walked away together in the moonlight. The 
younger laughed a little as he paused to light his cigar. “What 
funny people!” he said. “Did you ever meet anybody quite like 
them before?” 

“ 1 don’t know that I ever did,” replied the other; “ but they are 
none the worse for that, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, of course not; they are a good deal the better, in fact. 1 
like funny people. That’s why 1 go there, you know; because the 
musical part of the business is just a tiny wee bit over my head. 1 
wonder why you go there, Everard.” 

It was to be inferred from Mr. Fellowes’s manner that this was 
only a way of speaking, and that he was not really in any doubt as 
to the nature of the attractions which drew his friend to Bayswater. 
As his remark failed to provoke a response, he went on presently: 
“ I should never have supposed that a girl of that kind would have 
been in your line; she’s too unconventional altogether. Fancy her 
asking you to drop in to dinner quietly any evening!” 

“ Why shouldn't she?” 

“ 1 can’t think; I’m not Mrs. Grundy. I'm a guileless being, and 
1 bow to the rules and regulations ot society just as 1 bow to the 
Athanasian Creed, without understanding in the least what it is all 
about.” 

He walked on in silence for a few minutes and then resumed pen- 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


9 


sively: “ I should like to hear that girl's history; it must be a queer 
one, 1 fancy.” 

“ How queer? What do you mean by queer?” asked Everard, 
turning upon him with some asperity. 

** I don’t mean any harm; you needn’t show your teeth at me in 
that savage way. 1 was only thinking that she must have passed 
through some strange experiences. You know who her father was, 
don’t you?” 

” No;—at least, 1 haven’t heard much about him.” 

“ Perhaps you would like to hear.” 

Everard made an inarticulate murmur which might be construed 
into an assent; so the young man proceeded: 

*' He was on the turf once upon a time; 1 have an aged relative 
who remembers him perfectly. He was a brother of the late Lord 
Denham and uncle of the present man. Well, he came to howling 
grief, went off to the Continent and never came back again, fie 
used to be seen at Monaco and such places, I believe—the sort of in¬ 
dividual who wears suits of a big cheek pattern, waxes his mustache, 
plays a very good game of billiards, and goes by the name of ‘ the 
Major,’ don’t you know? Married somebody in the course of his 
wanderings—goodness know's who—sister of the lovely and accom¬ 
plished Patterson. 1 suppose she had a little money, and 1 suppose 
he spent it. As for the gill, he meant her to earn her living on the 
stage, and had her educated for that. She was to have come out 
at the Opera at Naples the year that he died.” 

That’s rather odd, considering that she has no voice.” 

“ Oh, well, perhaps it wasn’t the Opera; he may have intended 
her to play at concerts. Anyhow, he died just in the nick of time; 
and what was still better was that his brother died directly afterward 
and left the girl a small fortune. Thereupon she came and estab¬ 
lished herself in London with her aunt, as you know.” 

“ 1 don’t know that I am particularly concerned with Miss Den¬ 
ham’s history,” Everard remarked, after a pause. “ You can call 
her unconventional if you choose; but she is a thorough lady in her 
manners and feelings.” 

" Who said she wasn’t? 1 thought perhaps you might be inter¬ 
ested in hearing about her late papa, that was all. Personally, 1 
like her; and I like the old woman too. 1 can be happy with either. 
It will always give me pleasuie to dine with them, and remember, 
old fellow, that w’hen you want anybody to engage Aunt Sarah in 
psychical research you have only to apply to me. By-by.” And 
with that Mr. Fellowes hailed a passing hansom and was driven off. 

Everard pursued his way thoughtfully toward the Albany, where 
he lived. He had reached a time of life at which, if a man falls in 
love at all, he does so after a serious fashion; and indeed Mr. Everard 
had always been of a more or less serious temperament. He had 
left the army a few years before, because he had grown tired of 
loafing about garrison towns and had not had the luck to see any 
active service. He was now, like many other retired officers, en¬ 
gaged in the wune trade; for he had felt it necessary to have an oc¬ 
cupation of some kind, and the selling of wine, if not exciting, 
might prove profitable. This girl, with whom he had only recently 
become acquainted, was to be his wife, if she would have him: as 


10 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


to that he had made up his mind, and he did not much care whether 
her fattier had been disreputable or not. So that, if Mr. Fellowes 
had intended to caution his friend good-naturedly against forming 
an ill-considered alliance, the warning was thrown away. What 
preoccupied Everard was not a doubt as to'the wisdom of his choice, 
but a very reasonable one as to whether so young, so charming, and 
so fastidious a girl as Miss Denham would be likely to care for a 
common-place middle-aged person like himself. 

It might have been some relief to his mind could he have heard 
what Miss Denham was saying at that very moment in reply to 
certain disparaging comments uttered by her aunt. 

44 1 like him just because he is what you call ordinary,” she de¬ 
clared. “ It rests me to talk to some one who is perfectly sane and 
reasonable, and has a clear, sober head on his shoulders.” 

44 My dear, ] hope you don’t mean to imply that my head is not 
sober and clear. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, no; not yours—though I do wish, auntie dear, that you 
wouldn’t recur so often to visions and dreams.” 

“ But, my dear, if these things are true—” 

“ Well, what if they are? What do they prove?—what do they 
lead to? 1 hate such subjects—I hate the whole thing!” cried the 
girl, speaking with considerably greater vehemence than the occasion 
appeared to call for. - 

Mrs. Patterson perhaps understood more than the words expressed; 
for she ,did not seem surprised, but only, after a while, made the 
somewhat inconsequent rejoinder of: ‘‘ Well, 1 hope we shall have 
peace now/’ 

“ Oh, 1 hope so!” sighed the girl. She was wandering up and 
down the room and twisting her fingers together nervously. ' 4 1 
hope so,” she repeated— 44 but I don’t know. And yet, why not? 
We have begun a new life; and we are happy together, you and I, 
aren't we, auntie? You would not think of letting—other people 
find out where we are?” 

“ God forbid!” ejaculated the old woman, rising and putting her 
arm round her niece’s waist. “ 1 won’t tell anymore ghost stories, 
as Mr. Fellowes calls them, if you would rather 1 didn’t, dear,” she 
added. 44 I am a foolish old creature, and 1 interest myself in mat¬ 
ters which 1 should perhaps do better to leave alone. I’ll try not to 
distress you in that way again. And now go to bed, Laura; you 
look tired out.” 


CHAPTER 11. 

Everard was not a man who took much pleasure in social gather¬ 
ings, or was greatly in request amongst those who held them: for he 
was neither rich enough nor clever enough nor' pushing enough to 
be remembered by the ladies who give balls and dinner parties. At 
musical afternoons, however, the humblest contribution in the shape 
of a bachelor is always thankfully received, and when he heard that 
Miss Denbrm was in the habit of frequenting these, he sought and 
obtained as many invitations to them as he wished. 

She seemed pleaserl to see him at such times; her pale face, which, 
when in repose* had a rather sad expression, lighted up with the 



THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


11 


Slightest ol smiles when she recognized him, and she would greet 
him with a little familiar nod which somehow made him feel as if 
he stood upon a rather different tooting with her from that of her 
other acquaintances. As otten as not these smiles and uods were all 
that he got for his pains. • Miss Denham was becoming famous in a 
restricted sense; her playing was pronounced to be as original as it 
was perfect, and when she was not at the piano, she was commonly 
so surrounded by admirers of both sexes that it was no easy matter 
for a diffident man to approach her. Everard seldom attempted to 
do so. He Knew that it he did get speech of her he would only be 
able to say jcommonplaces, and the utterance of agreeable common¬ 
places was not what he excelled in. So he contented himself with 
worshiping her from afar, and talking to Mrs. Patterson, whom 
nobody noticed, and who was ever ready to expatiate upon the topic 
which interested him above all others. She was ready, that is, to 
go into raptures over her niece’s talents and amiability, but she was 
rather piovokingl.y reticent as to her past and future. 

“We have no plans, ’ she said once. “We shall stay in London, 
1 suppose, it Laura likes it, and it—if it seems desirable; but she 
has only taken our little house by the month and we may flit at any 
time.” 

“ Do you like leaving things to chance in that way?” asked 
Everard in a dissatisfied tone. 

“ We don’t leave things to chance,” replied the old lady; “ we 
leave them to fate. Everybody must do that, whether he likes it or 
not.” 

Everard did not think it worth while to dispute this proposition; 
but he determined that he would take an opportunity of finding out 
whether Miss Denham was as undecided as her aunt represented her 
to be. With this end in view, he drew near to her one day when she 
chanced to be sitting apart, and while three able-bodied amateurs 
were making a great noise with a piano, violin, and violoncello. 

“ Are you not going to play to us this afternoon?” he asked, by 
way of opening the conversation. 

She shook her head. “ It isn’t one of my days. There are days 
when 1 can play and days when I can’t.” 

“ Do you mean that you are capricious?” inquired Everard, feel¬ 
ing his way. 

“ Oh, 1 suppose so,” she answered, with a sort of impatience. ** I 
have caprices and moods and sympathies and antipathies and pre¬ 
sentiments—all the things that you have not and that nobody ought 
to have. You would never dislike Dr. Fell without a good reason, 
vrould you? You would say to yourself, ‘ What has the doctor 
done? Is he practicing without a diploma? Has he killed any of 
his patients? Has he done me a personal injury ? No. Very well, 
then, of course 1 can’t dislike him, and I must have been mistaken 
in fancying that 1 did,’ ” 

“ Don’t you think you are a little bit hard upon me?” suggested 
Everard, 

“ Hard upon you! Don’t you understnd that it is just because 
you are like that that I admire you, and—well, sympathize with 
you? People wiiofeel differently can sympathize, can they not?” 

“ I hope so.” 


12 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH'. 


“ And perhaps they may even sympathize the more because they 
differ. You have plenty of common sense, and 1 have none. You 
are—may 1 say that you are possibly just a trifle wanting in im¬ 
agination?” 

“ You may say that I am totally deficient in it, if you like,” an¬ 
swered Everard. 

“ Whereas 1 have a superabundance of it; so that—” 

“ So that we are evidently made for one another.” 

The girl colored very slightly, and then laughed. “ What I mean 
is that two such people are sure to be friends, if they don’t quarrel 
at once,” she said. “There is a sort of satisfction in feeing with 
somebody who has the qualities which are wanting in one’s own 
nature. It does seem to fill up the gaps after a fashion, don’t you 
think so?” 

“ Yes,” answered Everarci; although it may be that he had not 
reasoned out his pleasure in Miss Denham’s society so closely, 
“ But about your capriciousness,” he resumed; “ does it extend to 
everything? To your mode of life, 1 mean, and your plans, and so 
on?” 

Miss Denham did not catch the drift of the question. “ Has any 
one been telling you that I once thought of playing professionally?” 
she asked. “ It was not caprice exactly that made me give that up; 
it was—” She broke off, and added father hurriedly, “ Besides, it 
was no longer necessary. 1 don’t regret it. To play in public one 
should be sure of one’s self, and I am never quite sure of myself. 
Most likely 1 should have failed.” 

“ 1 was not thinking of that,” Everard said. “ 1 am very glad 
that you have never appeared before a paying audience. What 1 
really meant to ask you was, whether you intend to settle in London. 
Mrs. Patterson seemed to think that you were uncertain about it.” 

“ Everything is uncertain,” replied the girl. “ ‘ Time and chance 
happen to all ’—those are the only certain things. And why should 
1 make plans when I can not possibly tell whether 1 shall be able 
to carry them out or not?” 

“ But surety,” objected Everard, “ it is advisable at least to know 
what you w r ant. When a man puts to sea he is aware that he may 
never reach the end of his voyage, but he shapes a course all the 
same; he doesn’t simply drift.” 

“ Not if he knows where he is going. But if one doesn’t know 
where one is going—it one has nowhere in particular to go to— 
weli, then it is pleasant enough to drift.” 

She did not look as if she found it pleasant. She was sitting besiae 
an open window, and her great gray eyes were gazing out wistfully 
beyond the trees on the square beneath. Her brows were drawn to¬ 
gether, and she was intertwining her lone slim fingers in a nervous 
manner which was habitual to her. Everard was painfully struck 
by the contrast between her careworn face and her careless words. 
He could not help fancying that she was oppressed by some secret 
trouble or apprehension, and that it was not so much the uncertainty 
of all things, as the certainty of approaching evil that saddened her. 
But presently that common sense which she so admired in him came 
to the front. “ After all,” he remarked, “ we are only discussing 
whether you shall continue to rent your house by the month or not. ” 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


13 

The clouds lifted from Miss Denham’s brow, and she began to 
smile again. “ Yes,” she agreed, “ that is all, and I think 1 will 
take the house on. I like London; people have been kind to mo 
here, and 1 would rather live here than anywhere else. 1 ” 

During the ten days that followed this conversation Everard> neg¬ 
lected the interests of his business in a manner which would have been 
highly culpable had he not had an experienced partner who could gel 
on very well without him. He saw Miss Denham, either at her own 
house or elsewhere, every day; and every day he fell more deeply in 
love. The fitfulness of her moods which, as she herself was wont 
to say, were “of all shades and colors,” only made her the more 
winning in his eyes. He, at all events, knew what he wanted, if she 
did not, and sometimes he hoped that he would get it in the long 
run. It was something that he had no rival. The men whom Miss 
Dunham was in the habit of meeting were not, for the most part, 
young men, nor were their attentions toiler of a kind that the most 
jealous of lovers could have objected to. She knew how to maKe 
herself agreeable to them; but Everard saw, or thought he saw, 
that she regarded them as nonentities. Her manner always changed 
a little when she addressed him. She often asked his advice about 
small matters, and nearly always took it. 

“ Laura leans a good deal upon you,” Mrs. Patterson said to him 
casually, and he was pleased witb the phrase. 

He did not, of course, take advantage of the general invitation to 
dinner which had been given him; but when he was asked for a par¬ 
ticular evening he accepted gladly, and on entering the drawing-room 
he found his friend, Fellowes, ahead}' sealed there, listening with 
much interest to one of Mrs. Patterson’s blood-curdling anecdotes. 

“ Buried beneath the very tree on which the bdtler had hanged 
himself,” Everard heard her saying; “ they found the body of the 
murdered page, with his poor little throat cut from ear to ear—ex¬ 
actly as my cousin had seen it in her dream. The housekeeper made 
a full confession, and—” 

But at this moment Miss Denham came in, and the old lady 
checked herself abruptly. “ That's all,” she said; “ and now I am 
not going to tell any more stories of that kind to-night, so please 
don’t ask me, Mr. Fellowes.” 

The evening proved a very pleasant one, for Laura was in un¬ 
usually high spirits. She would not play to them, saying that she 
was more inclined for conversation than music, and after dimer she 
talked cleverly and amusingly, as she was well able to do, when in 
the humor. Her impressions of her fellow-countrymen and coun¬ 
trywomen, of whom she had seen next to nothing until recently, di¬ 
verted her hearers greatly. 'She had a talent for mimicry which had 
no ill-nature about it, and which indeed seemed to be half uncon¬ 
scious. They were all laughing at her description of a lady, who, 
having taken her for a professional, and inquired what she charged 
for her lessons, had overwhelmed her with abject and almost tear¬ 
ful apologies on discovering that she was the cousin of a viscount, 
when the’door opened and the tall figure of man, whom neither 
Everard nor Fellowes had ever seen before, advanced with noiseless 
steps into the room. 

ILe had omitted to give his name, or the servant had failed to 


14 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


catch it; for he was not announced, and he was standing close to 
the little gioup before Mrs. Patterson looked up and saw him. 
When she did so she uttered a faint cry, which seemed to betoken 
dismay quite as much as surprise. Everard glanced quickly at 
Laura, who did not appear to be either surprised or dismayed. Her 
expression had not changed, she was still smiling, but she remained 
motionless, and she was looking at the new-comer with a curious 
intentness, as though fascinated or paralyzed by his sudden appear¬ 
ance. 

Everard, following the direction of her gaze, took stock of the 
strauger. He was a. tall, powerfully built man, evidently not an 
Englishman, although there was nothing about him that gave an im¬ 
mediate clew to his nationality. His age seemed to be about thirty. 
He w r ore his light-brown hair closely cut, his features were regular 
and strongly marked, and he was perfectly clean shaven; so that any¬ 
body who had not happened to glance first at his eyes would have 
been struck by the massiveness of his jaw. Everard did glance at 
his eyes first, and stopped there. They were certainly peculiar 
eyes. Atone moment they seemed very small; but the next they 
dilated, as a cat’s eyes dilate in the dark, then contracted again, un¬ 
til they became mere glittering points. This curious phenomenon 
was repealed perhaps half a dozen times during the minute that 
Everard spent in scrutinizing him. The man was looking all the 
while at Laura, and he, too, had a faint smile upon his lips. 

At the end of those long sixty seconds he tinned abruptly away, 
and held out his hand to Mrs. Patterson, saying in a low musical 
voice, and with scarcely any trace of foreign accent, “ So glad to 
have found you ajt 110016 !” 

“ You in London!” gasped Mrs. Patterson. “ How did you know 
that we were here? How did you find out our address?” 

“ You ask me that?” said the stranger, his smile increasing—“ you. 
ask me that?” 

Mrs. Patterson shuddered, and fell back in her chair. 

Then he shook hands with Laura, who had risen, and who said 
quite calmly, ‘‘ How do you do? Let me introduce you to Mr. 
Everard and Mr. Eellowes—Count Souratkin.” 

“ An old friendof Miss Denham’s,” added the count explanatory, 

“ and always charmed to make acquaintance with her new ones.” 

The two men bowed, but did not speak, and the pause which fol¬ 
lowed might have been found embarrassing by the intruder had he 
been liable to embarrassment. But to all appearance that w as not 
among his weaknesses. It is, to say the least of it, unusual to pay 
visits at ten o’clock at night, and in morning dress; yet he offered 
neither explanation nor apology, but sat down and waited quietly 
until Mrs. Patterson, recovering her self-possession, broke the silence, 
by saying, “ we did not expect to see you in England, Count Sourat¬ 
kin.” 

The count shrugged his shoulders. “I am a little everywhere, 
as you know,” he said. “ Rather in England than elsewhere, if I 
might choose. In England one does not risk to be arrested at every 
turn. Gentlemen,” he added, raising his voice and speaking in a 
slightly declamatory manner, “ you are citizens of a tree country, you 


THAT TERRIBLE MAST. 15 

may be thankful for that, and pity those who are not. We Rus¬ 
sians have a claim upon your sympathy, it seems to me.” 

“ Every nation which does not possess a Habeas Corpus Act, two 
Houses of Palaver, and control over the supplies through its repre¬ 
sentatives has our heartfelt compassion,” observed Fellovves. 

44 Why, then,” asked the count, ‘‘are your newspapers never 
weaiy of condemning those who are trying to obtain a constitution 
for Russia?” 

“ We don’t altogether approve of the means employed,” said 
Everard, dryly. 

“ Oh, you don’t approve of the means employed? Perhaps you 
will be so very kind as to suggest some other means that can be em¬ 
ployed in a country where there is no right of public meeting, 
and no independent press. But we must not talk politics,” said 
the count, seeming to recollect himself; “that is bad taste. Will 
not Miss Denham favor us with a little music instead?” 

“ 1 would rather not play this evening,” said Laura. 

‘‘ But you will not refuse an old friend. For the rest, 1 am sure 
that these gentlemen will join their entreaties to mine.” 

“ 1 should not think of asking Miss Denham to do anything that 
she was not inclined to do,” said Everard. 

44 Ah, then, 1 must beg alone.” 

A few seconds elapsed, during which nobody spoke, and then, to 
Everard’s surprise, Laura got up and walked to the piano, which 
she opened. ” What do you wish me to play?” she asked. 

44 Oh, that I will leave to you,” replied tlieRussian. 44 What you 
like—whatever you like.” 

She sat down, and presently broke into one of the oddest compo¬ 
sitions that Everard had ever listened to. There was no melody in it 
and next to no sequence. Probably onlyn, practiced ear w T ould have 
detected the recurrence of certain chords, which rose at intervals 
from the chaos of sound that swept them out of hearing and hur¬ 
ried them back, as straws are drawn beneath the surface and cast 
up again by an eddy. When it had come to an end Count Sourat- 
kin asked blandly: 

44 What do you think of that, now?” 

Everard did not reply; but Fellowes said: 44 Well, I’m no judge 
of music, but 1 should call it. diabolical.” 

44 Thank you, sir,” returned Souratkin, with a bow and a little 
smile; 44 you have found the word. Yes, that is the right word- 
diabolical. The piece is by me,” he added modestly. 44 1 call it Le 
Delire. ’ ’ 

Everard had moved to the piano, before which Laura was still 
sitting. She looked up as he approached. Her face was pale and 
grave, and he fancied that there was a look of piteous appeal in 
her eyes. He did not know in the least what was the matter; but he 
was very sure that something was the matter, and it she had asked 
him to seize Count Souratkin and throw him neck and crop out of 
the window he would with the utmost cheerfulness have endeavored 
to obey her. 

She did not make any such startling request, but merely inquired; 
“ Did you like that piece?” 
w Ko, v he answered. 


16 


THAT TERRIBLE MAIL 


“lam glad of that,” said she; “ 1 do not like it either. ” 

“ Shall 1 tell you something else?” whispered Everard. “ 1 don’t 
like the composer. 1 think it must be I)r. Fell.” 

To this she made no rejoinder. She was looking down at her 
fingers, which she was turning and twisting as usual. After a while 
she asked, without raising her eyes, “ What effect does he produce 
upon you?” 

“ He irritates me.” 

“ Nothing more than that? You do not feel afraid of him?” 

“ Certainly not. Why should 1 be afraid of him?” 

“1 don’t know; many people are. But you are not easily made 
afraid, 1 think.” And as she said the last words her face bright¬ 
ened. 

“ 1 have no pretensions to be a ‘hero,” answered Eveiard; “ but 
I don’t suffer much from causeless timidity. At all events, your 
friend does not alarm me. What is he—a Nihilist?” 

“ Yes, 1 believe so; but 1 am not sure. If he is not, it suits him 
to pass tor one. He is—” She paused and sighed. “ He is what 
it pleases him to be,” she added presently, and with that incon¬ 
clusive definition, she rose and joined the others. 

Fellowses was already sayiug good night to Mrs. Patterson, and 
Everard could only follow his example, although he had a strong 
and rather unreasonable feeling of reluctance to leave Count 
Souratkin alone with the ladies. When he was out in the street he 
said to his friend: 

“ That is the most sinister-looking scoundrel I ever set eyes on.” 

“ Airs. Patterson would probably agree with you,” observed Fel- 
lowes, laughing. “ She sat clucking and fluttering before him like 
an old hen who sees a kite. 1 wonder whether she has dreamed that 
he is going to rob and murder her.” 

“ 1 "should like very much to find out who he is,” muttered 
Everard. 

“ 1 can tell you. He is a man who knows some guilty secret 
about the late honorable and respectable Denham. Don’t be agi¬ 
tated. He is nothing worse tliau a chevalier d’industrie, and 1 will 
venture to prophesy that you find both the ladies alive and w T ell to¬ 
morrow. though 1 won’t go so far as to promise that you won’t find 
them a little poorer.” 


CHAPTER 111. 


Everard had exaggerated somewirat in declaring himself to be 
totally devoid of imagination. He had quite as much of that qual¬ 
ity as was required to give him a very disturbed night, to torment 
him during the course of it with visions of Laura suffering all kinds 
of improbable cruelties at the hands of Count Souratkin, and to 
make him fancy more than once that he heard her calling to him 
for help. Daylight restored order to his ideas; but even after he had 
shaved, dressed, eaten his breakfast, and read the leading articles .in 
tne “ Times,” he did not find himself iu as reasonable a frame of 
mind as he could have wished, nor was he able entirely to shake 


THAT TERRIBLE HAH. 


1< 

off the misgivings with which the man with the cat’s eves had in¬ 
spired him. Souratkin might be only a vulgar, impecunious bully; 
but he did not look like one, and in any case, the tacts remained 
that he was able to frighten both Mrs. Patterson and Miss Denham, 
and that they had been left unprotected in his company at an ad¬ 
vanced hour of the night. 

It Everard had done as he felt inclined he "would have been in 
Bayswater before eleven o’clock; but being five-und-thirty years of 
age he was guided only within certain limits by his inclinations, and 
it "was not until the afternoon that he was shown into Miss Den¬ 
ham’s drawing-room, bringing with him, by way of excuse for his 
visit, a piece of music which she had asked him to procure for her. 

The two ladies were certainly alive and well. If, as Fellowes 
had hinted might probably be the case, they had recently been com¬ 
pelled to part with money, their spirits did not appear to be affected 
by the loss. 

“ I was hoping that perhaps you might look in,” Laura said. 
‘ 4 Aunt Sarah and 1 were just trying to persuade ourselves that it 
wasn’t our duty to go out for a walk, and now it is evidently our 
duty to stay at home. You may read your book in peace, auntie, 
Mr. Everard and 1 are going to massacre Rubinstein.” 

With a sigh of relief Mrs. Patterson took up the volume which 
she had laid, face downward, upon the table (it was called “Un¬ 
recognized Forces,” Everard noticed), while Laura, seating herself 
at the piano, opened her new piece of music and began to play it off 
at sight, with that extraordinary facility of hers which to one*of her 
admirers always seemed little short of miraculous. 

“ Did your friend stay long after we had left, last night?” asked 
Everard, when she had struck the final chords. 

“ No, not long,” she answered, a troubled look coming over her 
face. “ If it is quite the same thing to you, I would rather not talk 
about him.” 

“ You don’t like him then?” 

“ 1 detest him with all my heart. 1 told you so last night.” 

“ 1 think not.” 

“ Didn’t 1? Well, you understood it, at all events, without being 
told.” 

“ Not exactly. But why should you receive the man4f you have 
such a strong feeling of repugnance to him?” 

“ Can one refuse to receive anybody for such a reason? Even it 
one could there are people wdio won’t be refused. He will come 
here just as often as he feels inclined; and when he is not here 1 
shall try to forget his existence.” 

Everard frowned. “ I can not understand why you should allow 
any one to persecute you,” he said. 

“ 1 did not say that he persecuted me. Please let me put him out 
of my mind now. He is not at all likely to come here again to-day.” 

Hardly had she made this rash assertion when he was standing 
before her. He had come in unannounced, just as he had done be¬ 
fore. It was the sound of the door shutting which caused Everard 
and Laura to look up, so that the servant must have opened it for 
him as for any ordinary visitor, but the noiseless fashion of his en¬ 
trance gave it almost the effect of an apparition. The scene was 


18 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


pearly an exact repetition of that of the previous evening. Count 
Souratkin stood gazing at Laura, his eyes dilating and contracting, 
she returned his gaze with a look which expressed neither surprise 
nor displeasure, but rather expectancy than anything else, and 
Everard was once more conscious of a feeling of intense irritation. 

It was all over in a minute. Souratkin shook hands with the 
ladies, bowed to Everard, and said what d pity it was to stay in¬ 
doors on such a beautiful afternoon. “1 scarcely thought to have 
seen you to day,” he remarked, speaking with that slight foreign 
accent of his. “ 1 was wandering about, not knowing what 1. 
should do with myself, when 1 passed the end of the street, and as 
I perceived that you were at home—” 

“ From the end of the street?” interrupted Everard, not very 
politely. '* You must have remarkably good eyesight.” 

‘‘My eyesight is good,” replied the count, “still it is not good 
enough to penetrate brick walls. No, it was a—what is the word, 
Mrs. Patterson?—an intuition?” 

Mrs. Patterson bowed her head gravely. 

“An intuition—yes. I had an intuition that 1 should find Miss 
Denham here, playing the piano— was it not Rubinstein that you 
were playing?—and 1 said to myself, ‘ 1 shall ask her to be so kind 
as to take a little walk with me in Kensington Gardens. That wiil 
be good for her.” 

“ Thank you,” said Laura; “ but 1 don’t think I will walk this 
afternoon, i am rather tired. ” 

‘‘ Raison de plus, the air will refresh you. 1 shall talk to Mrs. 
Patferson while you put on your bonnet. ” 

This was more than Everard could stand. He was a quiet, peace¬ 
able man; but his longing to pick a quarrel with the Russian was 
irresistible. “ 1 hope,” he said, “ that you will not think of going 
out if you are tired, Miss Denham.” 

“it is not worth disputing about,” replied Laura, leaving the 
room. 

She returned almost immediately with her bonnet on. 

“ 1 afn ready when you are,” she said to the count. 

She was drawing on her gloves, one of which she had a moment¬ 
ary difficulty in buttoning. Turning suddenly to Everard, who was 
watching her with a gloomy face—“ Will you fasten it forme?” 
she asked, and held out her wrist to him. 

“ Why are you doing this?” he whispered, as he obeyed her. 

“ Because—” she replied. With which unsatisfactory answer 
she moved away, followed by Souratkin. 

Everard was gieatly annoyed and did not care who knew it. 

“ Who and what is that fellow?” he asked a second before the door 
had closed. 

“ Hush!” exclaimed Mrs. Patterson, holding up her finger warn- 
ingly. Then she beckoned to her questioner to draw nearer, and 
answered in a low, solemn voice, “ Sometimes 1 think he is the 
devil!” 

“My dear lad}',” returned Everard impatiently, “you must ex¬ 
cuse my saying that that is very great nonsense. How can any man 
be the devil? 1 suppose what you mean is that ho is a spiritualist, 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 19 

or some charlatan of that. kind. He evidently wishes to convey 
that impression.” 

“ He does not wish to convey the impression that he is a char¬ 
latan,” said Mrs. Patterson, smiling faintly. It you will sit down 
1 will tell you what he is, so far as 1 know. But 1 do not know 
much.” 

“ 1 shall he glad to hear what you do know.” 

“ Well—but first let me ask you a question. It is rather an un¬ 
usual one; but perhaps you will pardon an old woman tor thinking 
more about her niece’s happiness than about etiquette. Am 1 wrong 
in fancying that you take a special interest in her?” 

” So special an interest, Mrs. Patterson, that I would ask her to 
be my wite to-morrow, if 1 thought there was a chance of her ac¬ 
cepting me.” 

“ That was what 1 imagined; and glad and thankful shall 1 be if 
she ever does accept you. But 1 think you must not ask her to¬ 
morrow, nor even the next day, Now I will tell you about that 
terrible man. We met. him first some years ago, during Mr. Den¬ 
ham’s lifetime. Mr. Denham was a great gambler, and so is the 
count; so that they were drawn together in "that way, and he used 
to come often to the house. I was immensely interested in him, 
because he told me more about the unseen world than 1 had ever 
been able to learn from books, and because—though that is a com¬ 
paratively small matter—he has the gift of second-sight in a remark¬ 
able degree. Perhaps you don’t believe in second-sight, but 1 can 
give you instances.” 

“ Some other time, Mrs. Patterson, if you don’t mind. And was 
Miss Denham as much interested in this man as you were?” 

44 No, she always disliked him; although he took a great deal of 
trouble to ingratiate himself with her. She even doubted his 
powers, poor child! One evening, when he was telling us how he 
had imposed his will upon different people she very foolishly defied 
him to make her do anything that she did not choose to do. Not 
five minutes afterward she got up from her chair, crossed the room, 
and kissed him on the forehead. He laughed, and asked her 
whether she was convinced now. Was it not horrible of him?” 

44 Her father kicked him out of the house, 1 suppose,” exclaimed 
Everard indignantly. 

44 Oh, no; Mi. Denham was not that kind of man. Besides, 
Count Souratkin did what he liked with him. For some reason or 
other he chose to prevent Laura from playing in public, though 
both she and her father wished that she should do so. Mr. Denham 
was very much vexed about it, yet he gave in. And ever since that 
day poor Laura has been completely in that terrible man's power. 
She has fought and struggled, but it has always been useless.” 

44 1 should have thought you might have helped a little. In what 
way does he propose to use his power over Miss Denham? Does he 
wish her to marry him?” 

44 Ah, that 1 can’t tell. He has never said so, but when she came 
into her little fortune we feared that that might be his aim: for he 
is extravagant, and I believe be is poor. And lie is utterly un¬ 
scrupulous. You see, we have gamed nothing by running away 
from him and concealing our address.” 


m 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


“It is possible to discover addresses without supernatural aid. 
This man may be a humbug, or he may really have some such 
power as he claims. Either way, 1 presume that his influence over 
Miss Denham only exists when he is with her.” 

“ 1 cannot say for certain, but it is undoubtedly less when he is 
absent.” 

“ Very well; 1 will take care that he shall be absent from her 
henceforth and forever.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Mrs. Patterson smiled. “It is not such plain sailing as that, 
Mr. Everard. In the first place, I doubt whether you could per¬ 
suade Laura to close her doors against Count Souratkin; in the 
second, 1 don’t think you would be able to thrash him; and in the 
third, 1 am quite sure you would not be able to irighten him. 
There is only one way ot releasing Laura, and that is to oppose a 
stronger will than his own to the count. It is a forlorn hope, 1 fear, 
but it is worth trying; and there is just this in your favor, that 
Laura herself will fight, consciously oi unconsciously, on your side. 
If you can get her to refuse him- anything, no matter how small, 
you will have gained a great victory. Now, do you think you have 
patience and strength enough to undertake this struggle? It will be 
a long one, and the chances are against you.” 

Everard was pacing up and down the room with his hands in his 
pockets. “ I should prefer a rougher and readier method,” he re¬ 
marked. 

“ There is no such method.” 

“ So be it then. But it your plan fails 1 shall take the liberty of 
reverting to mine. The fact is that 1 don’t know much about my 
adversary’s weapons, whereas I do know how to use my fists.” 

The clearness and decision with which Mrs. Patterson had stated 
her case impressed Everard a good deal more than the supposition 
upon which it was founded. It vexed him to think that Souratkin’s 
tricks—for as such he regarded them—should have inspired the 
worm n whom he loved with awe, and he was personally convinced 
that the count was more or less of an impostor. lie had, however, 
the sense to perceive that this was not the point at issue. "Whether 
the state of slavery to which Laura had been reduced was the result 
of Souiatkin’s strertgth ot will or of her own over-excited imagina¬ 
tion signified comparatively little; the main thing was that it should 
be put an end to, and for that purpose Mrs. Patterson’s suggestion 
was perhaps the best that could be adopted. 

In the meantime Everard thought that it could do no harm to get 
a little more information about this mysterious personage, so he ap¬ 
plied to a friend of his hi the Foreign Office who promised to make 
inquiries at the Russian embassy. In the course oi a few days this 
gentleman sent in his report. 

“ It seems,” he wrote, “ that your man is a deuce of a fellow. 
They call him exceedingly dangerous, and if ever he crosses the Rus¬ 
sian frontier again he will find himself at the bottom ot the deepest 
dungeon in St. Petersburg before he knows where he is. He began 
life as a man of foitune and a stanch supporter of the dynasty, but. 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


21 

he gambled away the last of his money some years ago, and since 
then he has been a wanderer upon the face of the earth and has 
espoused advanced liberal ideas. It is not certain ^vhether he is 
actually a member of the Terrorist party, but there seems to be no 
doubt that his sympathies are with it. If he has not assassinated 
any generals or prefects of police with his own hand it is probably 
because he has always found it easy to get others to do such jobs for 
him, for his personal influence is said to he extraordinary. This 
seems to show that he is no fool, and as he is reputed to be a first- 
class player at games of skill and chance (this is my informant’s 
description of him, and he gave it without a smile) I don’t think I 
should cultivate his acquaintance if 1 were you.” 

The above communication was rather pleasant to Everard, since, 
when summed up, it amounted to a confirmation of his own opinion 
that Souratkin was a clever scamp. While waiting it he had ab¬ 
stained from calling upon Miss Denham, but now he betook himself 
to her house, prepared for the struggle in which he was about to 
engage, and more confident of success than Mrs Patterson would 
have wished him to be. He. found Laura at home and alone, and 
was surprised by the joyous expression of her face. 

“ Ought 1 to receive you when Aunt Sarah is out?” she asked. 
“ 1 suppose 1 ought not, but 1 can’t resist telling you the good 
news. Count Souratkin has gone off to Paris.” 

“ Oh, has he?” said Everard, thinking that fie had better not 
seem to attach too much importance to this announcement. “ 1 
sincerely hope he will stay there.” 

The girl sighed and shook her head slightly. “ At any rate, he 
is gone for the present,” she said. And then, passing her hand 
across her forehead, as if to sweep away all gloomy thoughts—“ 1 
want to be happy now and to enjoy myself; 1 have an attack of wild 
spirits coming on. Do you ever have attacks of wild spirits, Mr. 
Everard?” 

”1 sometimes had them -when 1 was your age,” answered 
Everard, smiling. 

“ Oh, but you are still quite young; and as for me, 1 often feel as 
old as the hills. Age has nothine: to do with the number of years 
that one has lived. One is always young so long as one lias one’s 
faculties of enjoyment, and you are not past enjoying things, are 
you?” 

“ Well, no; lam not quite so aucient as all that.” 

“ Would you enjoy going to the opera to morrow night, ior ex* 
ample?” 

“ 1 should—with you,” answered Everard. 

“ Because Lady Denham has sent to say that 1 can have her box, 
and they are going to give the * Barbiere,’ and 1 tliouslit tliat per¬ 
haps, it you had nothing better to do, you would dine with us and 
take us to Covent Carden afterward. And Mr. Fellowes—1 wonder 
whether he would come.” 

“ I will ask him,” answered Everard. 

“ And then do you think it would be very wrong if we were all to 
come back here after it was over and eat oysters? 1 can’t eat raw 
oysters myself, but 1 dare say you can, and 1 know that Aunt Sarah 
is simply a victim to them. My share of the feast will be confined 


22 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


to brown bread and butter, but wbat I shall value will be the reck¬ 
less dissipation of it. 1 have heard of people partaking of oyster 
suppers after the plajr, but I never did such a thing myself, and 
very likely 1‘never shall; so you see, it you and Mr. Fellowes 
will consent to be present at this one you will provide me with a 
cheering memory for my declining 3 ^ears. "When the other old 
ladies begin talking about the wonderful things that they did when 
they were young 1 shall be able to wag my head knowingly and say 
that 1, too, could tell a tale if I would.” 

Everard smiled to himself as he walked away, thinking of this 
speech. After all, that old father of hers could not have been quite 
such a reprobate as he had been represented, or Laura would hardly 
be still the child that she was. He was not sure whether he liked 
her best in her childish or in her graver humors, but indeed the ques¬ 
tion was of no great consequence, for he had reached that absurd 
condition of mind in which one person, and one only out of the 
whole world, seems perfect at all times and under all circumstances. 

Fellowes was disengaged and was quite willing, as he said, to ful¬ 
fill the functions of the harmless necessary fourth party. 11 his 
friend did not have an uninterrupted tete-a-tete with Miss Denham 
■when the appointed evening came that was not his fault, but Laura’s, 
who apparently preferred that the conversation should be general. 
Everard, lor his part, was content to have it so. He had never ex¬ 
pected to win her love quickly and, for the time being, what he 
chiefly desired was to see her merry and careless, as girls of her age 
ought to be. 

In that respect she left him very little to wish for. At dinner and 
at the opera afterward she talked incessantly, and sometimes rather 
excitedly. Her gayety infected her companions, her eyes w r ere 
sparkling 0 , there was a faint pink flush upon her cheeks, and 
Everard, who did not himself talk very much, thought he had 
never seen her looking so charming. He did not take his eyes oil 
her for a moment, and thus he at once detected a change which 
came over her manner after the second act, and which escaped the 
notice of the two other occupants of the box. When he saw the 
color fade out of her face when she ceased speaking, and when that 
uervous twisting of her fingers began, he immediately suspected 
that she had caught sight of Souratkin, and getting up, he swept 
the house with his glass in the full expectation of discovering the 
Russian somewhere. But he was disappointed. Souratkin was not 
visible, and he was driven to conclude that Laura’s obvious uneasi¬ 
ness must have some other cause. She had turned so white that at 
last he could not forbear bending over her and asking whether she 
felt ill. 

She started and half rose from her chair. 

“No,” she answered in an odd, hurried way, “ but—but I think 
1 must go away.” 

“ Do you wish to go home?” he inquired* 

“ No—at least, I don ; t think so—1 don’t know.” 

All of a sudden she started to her feet, diopping her fan and 
cloak, and made for the door of the box. Fellowes turned round' 
and stared, while Mrs. Patterson threw a significant glance at 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH'. 23 

Everard, -who perceived that the moment had come for him to try 
his strength against Souratkih’s. 

“You cannot, go away, now, Miss Denham,” he said quietly. 

“ Your carriage will not be there, 3 r ou know.” 

He had placed himself in front of her, and was looking steadily 
into her eyes, which met his with a piteous, bewildered gaze. “ Oh, 
what shall l do?—what shall I do?’’ she murmured faintly. 

“ Stay where you are,” he answered smiling. “ Nothing is going 
to happen to you, and you will feel all right again directly.” 

“ Ah, you don’t know!” she exclaimed, with a long, shuddering 
sigh. 

Nevertheless, she dropped into the chair which he placed for her; 
and at the same moment the curtain rose. Several times after this 
she started convulsively, and made a movement as it to escape, but 
always she met Everard s eyes, and fell back again—whether with 
relief or with resignation, he could not determine. Gradually the 
fit, or whatever it had been, seemed to pass away from her, leaving 
her pale and exhausted, but apparently calm. She did not open her 
lips again until Everard w as helping tier into her carriage, w hen she 
tinned to him with a ghost of a smile, and said: “ 1 don’t think we 
will have our oyster supper to-night; I am too tired.” 

Mrs. Patterson put her head out of the win dow to wdiispei: “1 
congratulate you; you have won your first victory.” 

It might be so; but the whole business was provoking and ridic¬ 
ulous to Everard, who was very reluctant to take Count Souratkin’s 
power seriously, and yet. found himself unable any longer to make 
light of it. His was one of those essentially Britannic minds, to 
w'hich the incomprehensible and the incredible mean pretty much 
the same thing, and which, in the presence of phenomena which 
can neither be explained nor denied, are apt to grow defiant, and 
conclude that the best way out of the difficulty is to punch the 
phenomena-monger’s head. Everard did not punch Count Sourat¬ 
kin’s head, because, for one thing, he did not know w here that head 
was to be found, and, for another, he thought it well to hold phys¬ 
ical forge in reserve; but he strongly suspected that the reserves 
would have to be called out before the campaign had proceeded 
much further, and the prospect of the preliminary operations was in 
no w r ay attractive to him. 

As for these, he had not long to wait before embarking upon 
them. Walking dow r n Oxford Street the next day, on his way to 
inquire whether Miss Denham had recovered from her fatigue, he 
was a good deal astonished at meeting the object of his solicitude 
near the Marble Arch. She was alone; she was hastening eastward 
with an odd, uncertain gait, as if she did not quite see whither she 
was going; and indeed the vacant expression of her eyes seemed to 
show that she had not all her wots about her. She would have 
passed Everard without noticing him, had he not intercepted her, 
and when she recognized him she only smiled faintly, and made as 
though she would have pursued her way. 

But he had no idea of allowing her to do that. “ 1 was intend¬ 
ing to call upon you, Miss Denham,” he remarked. “ Where are 
you going in such a hurry, if 1 may ask?” 

“To the Langhain Hotel/’ she answered. ‘‘At least, I think , 


24 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


so—yes; it must be there.” She paused for a moment; then seemed 
to collect herself. “ I must go now, Mr. Everard,” she said. “ Per¬ 
haps you could come and see us to-morrow?” 

” Indeed,” said Everard, ” 1 think you had better let me take you 
home. You ought not to be walking through these crowded streets 
all by yourself.” 

” What does it signify?” she returned, rather impatiently.. “ At 
any rate, 1 must go on, whether it is proper or not.” 

“ Why must you?” 

” Because—because—oh, 1 can’t tell you why; only X mustl It 
is impossible to do anything else.” 

11 1 assure you you are mistaken. It is perfectly possible for you 
to go back to your house with me, and 1 will prove ]t to you.” 

Everard had called a hansom while he was speaking. Tie now 
gently forced Laura to enter it, gave the address to the driver, and 
sat down beside her. 

“ Oh,” she exclaimed, under her breath, “ you don’t know what 
you have done!” 

“ Don’t X? Well, at least 1 have shown you that it could be 
done.” 

She looked up at him with a smile and a sigh. “ Thank you,” 
she said; ” you are very kind to me. Only 1 am afraid it is all no 
use.” 

She sunk back with an air of exhaustion, iust as she had done the 
night before at the opera; and Everard began to talk unconcernedly 
about the first thing that came into his head. It did not much 
matter what subject he chose, since she was evidently not listening 
to him. 

When they reached her house she did not ask him to come in, but 
he took the liberty of doing so uninvited, for he was anxious to 
have a few words with Mrs. Patterson. Laura, after remaining for 
a moment in the drawing-room, went away to take off her bonnet, 
and then Everard seated himself beside the old lady. 

” Now, Mrs. Pattersou,” he said, “ this sort of thing won’t do, 
you know. By a lucky chance 1 met Miss Denham in Oxford Street, 
and induced iier to come back here with me, so for this time no 
harm is done; but one can’t count upon such a thing happening 
twice, and if 1 had not stopped her she would have gonq straight to 
the Langham Hotel, where 1 suppose 1 may take it for granted that 
Count Souratkin is staying.” 

Mrs. Patterson threw up her arms.' ” This is most marvelous! 
You are quite right; that terrible man is at the Langham Hotel. 
He returned from Paris unexpectedly, and called yesterday after¬ 
noon while we were out; but 1 took care not to spoil poor Laura’s 
pleasure by saying a word to her about it, and she could not have 
know n that he was in London, much less have found out his ad¬ 
dress. Yet, you see, she .has twice within twenty-four hours been 
irresistibly impelled to go to him. The only thing that reassures me 
is your having been able to prevent her from yielding to the im¬ 
pulse. That shows that you are beginning to exercise "a counteract¬ 
ing influence upon her.” 

Everard did not look pleased. “ It seems to me,” he observed, 
“ that you might have done a little more in the way of counteract- 


THAT TERRIBLE HAH< 


25 


fng influence yourself. Surely, after what you saw last night, you 
might have anticipated this!” 

What could 1 do? 1 could not lock my niece up in her own 
house.” 

“ I am by no means sure that it might not have been better to do 
that than to let her expose herself to such risks. At the very least, 
you might have insisted upon accompanying her when she went 
cut.” 

“But 1 had no suspicion that she was going to the Laugham 
Hotel. It seemed impossible that she should know—” 

“Just look at that!” interrupted Everard suddenly. He had 
picked up from the table a visiting-card, whicii bore the inscription 
of Le Comte Qouratkm, and the words “ Langham Hotel ” written 
in pencil underneath the name. 

Mrs. Patterson looked confused and penitent. “ It was veiy 
stupid of me,” she murmured. “ I did not know what had become 
of the card—1 thought 1 had put it in a book which I was reading 
yesterday—” 

“ And where, of course, Miss Denham found it. The thing is as 
-plain as a pikestaff. She knew the man was in London; she over¬ 
excited herself in trying to forget him, and that scene at the theater 
was nothing more nor less than ilie effect of the reaction. The 
truth is that you are so anxious to have your nonsensical superstitions 
confirmed that you will accept any explanation of an occurrence 
rather than the natural and obvious one.” 

“ But, Mr Everard, even if Laura did see the card, that would 
not account for the magnetic attraction which drew her toward a 
man whom she hates.” 

“ When the existence of the magnetic attraction is established, it 
will be time enough to try and account for it. In my poor judgment, 
she is simply the victim of a delusion,-which it is our business to 
dispel, if we can.” 

“ Ah, no! there is no delusion. She is possessed—possessed by a 
devil, poor child! and no one can save her, except by exorcising 
him.” 

“ Very well, very well,” returned Everard, irritably; “ I’ll exorcise 
him with a thick stick, if necessary. But in the meantime, since you 
won’t help me, do let me beg of you to remain neutral, and not to 
play the enemy’s game. The man will come to the house, of course, 
there’s no help for that; but 1 mean to keep Miss Denham out of 
the house all day and every day until her mind has recovered its 
balance a little. You won’t put obstacles in my way, 1 trust.” 

“ Oh, no,” leplied Mrs. Patterson, with a despondent shake of her 
head; “ on the contrary, 1 will do all that 1 can to assist you. But 
you little know Count Souratkin, it you imagine that he will not find 
her out and follow her, wherevei she may be.” 

“ Well,” said Everard, “ he shall not find her alone, anyhow.” 

And at that moment Laura’s entrance put an end to the dialogue. 

“Shall we have some music?” she asked, as composedly as if 
nothing unusual had occurred. 

She sat down at the piano, and began to play one of those solemn, 
stately compositions of the old masters, for which our feverish 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


26 


generation, with its taste for all lhat is odd, fantastic, or far-fetched, 
is ceasing to care. 

“ That is better than * Le Delire,’ is it not?” she said, after a time, 
with a quiet smile, ot which Everard easily interpreted the meaning. 

lie nodded, but made no articulate reply, knowing that,Beethoveu 
could say all to her that he could, and could say it a thousand times 
more convincingly. She went, on playing while he sat silently watch¬ 
ing her, and while Mrs. Patteison dozed over her book, and when 
at length he rose to take his leave, he did not think it necessary or 
advisable to refer to what had taken place earlier in the afternoon. 

But after he had said good-by, and was half-way down the stairs, 
he heard the drawing-room door shut behind him, and Laura fol¬ 
lowed him to the landing. 

“ 1 wanted to thank you for your kindness,” she said simply, 
“ and to tell you that 1 understand it all. 1 don’t know why you 
should be so good to me. ” 

Everard hesitated. If he told her that he loved her, he might at 
once and forever lose all power ot giving her help. Fearing that his 
self-control might desert him, and that iie might say too much, he 
erred a little in the opposite direction. 

“ Oh, everybody’s nerves are apt to get unstrung at times,” he 
answered lightly, ‘‘ and when one is outof sorts in that way one is 
sure to see visions and dream dreams. I’ll undertake to put you all 
right in no time, if you’ll let me prescribe for you, and what I 
should recommend first of all is plenty ot fresh air. 1 don’t believe 
either you or Mrs. Patterson have ever seen Richmond nr ‘Windsor, 
or any of the pretty places that are within reach of London. Won’t 
you allow me to do the honors of the neighborhood for you? I 
would get Fellowes to join us, and we would have a series of happy 
days in tile country.” 

lie could see that she was a little hurt by this way of treating her 
affliction. “ Yes,” she answered, ** of course you think it. is all non¬ 
sense, and though it is not nonsense, perhaps it is best that you 
should think so. . Yes, 1 should like very much to go to all those 
places with you, and so would Aunt Sarah, I know.” She paused, 
and then held out her hand to him. “ I will try to do exactly as 
you tell me,” she said, ” since you are so good as to take all this 
trouble. Only you will not lose patience with me, will you? 1 
have confidence in you, but I have none in myself. Indeed, 1 some¬ 
times think that I have no self left, that 1 am only the shadow of 
another person.” 

“You will think differently a short time hence, 1 hope,” answered 
Everard. For the present w'e are going to enjoy ourselves, and 
forget all about bogeys.’ 

CHAPTER Y. 

” No,” said Fellowes, good-humoredly, but firmly, in repjy to a 
suggestion of Everard’s; ” I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, old chap; 
but enough is as good as a feast, and, fond as I am of Mrs. Patter¬ 
son’s ghost stories, 1 doubt whether 1 could stand seven or eight 
hours of them at a stretch. So long as you keep inside the four-mile 
radius I’m with you; but if you want somebody to take complete 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


27 


charge of an old woman daring several long days in the country, 
you had better advertise, and offer suitable pay. 1 don’t much think 
you'll get any one to do it out of pure friendship.” 

Everard had not the face to ask another friend to undertake the 
task which Fellovves had declined; so that Mrs. Patterson was con¬ 
ducted to the environs of London without a special cavalier. She 
did not, however, object to this arrangement, nor was she herself 
lound in any way objectionable as a chaperone by her companions. 
A bench in the shade was all that she asked for, and she would sit 
contentedly nodding over a book for as long a time as it pleased them 
to wander away and leave her there. 

Well was it for her that she was so patient; for both Everard and 
Laura were very apt to forget all about her on these occasions. The 
former had every reason to believe that his regimeu was working 
satisfactorily. Whether Laura had seen Souratkin again he did not 
know, not having cared to mention the man’s name to her; but if 
she had. the meeting had evidently done her no harm, and it was 
certain that she had benefited both in health and spirits by these daily 
excursions 

How delightful it has all been!” she exclaimed one afternoon. 
” But we shall soon have seen every place that there is to see, 1 sup¬ 
pose, and then the only thing to be done will be to stay at home and 
piactice one’s neglected scales. 1 wish London had more sides!” 

It was upon the Terrace at Windsor that she breathed this aspira¬ 
tion, so welcome to her hearer. They had visited the State Apart¬ 
ments; they had strolled leisurely beneath the el ns in the Long 
Walk; they had attended the afternoon service at St. George’s, and 
now they were enjoying the view of the distant spires and antique 
towers which crown the wat’ry glade, while Mrs. Patterson was 
taking a little well earned repose at the White Hart. 

“ There are thirty-two points of the compass,” Everard remarked. 

“ Yes; but there are not thirty-two Windsors, nor thirty-two days 
in July, and if there were, 1 shouldn’t have the heart to condemn 
you to thirty-two consecutive holidays. I w'onder whether 1 have 
been a great bore to you?” 

“ Is it necessary to answer that question?” asked Everard, smil¬ 
ing. 

‘‘Well, no, considering that you could only make one answer. 
And perhaps, after all, you haven’t been very much bored, so far. 
You would be, though, if -this sort of thing were to go on much 
longer.” 

“ 1 should like this thing, as you call it, to go on to the end of 
time,” Everard declared with pardonable exaggeration. 

She did not seem to hear him. She was silent for a few seconds, 
leaning on the parapet, and gazing down at the blue smoke of the 
town beneath and the river all aflame with the setting sun. “ 1 am 
not sure whether you know that 1 am very grateful to you,” she 
said suddenly, “ 1 want you to know it.” 

* “ I can’t help being glad that you should feel so; but in reality it 
is 1 who have reason to be grateful to you.” 

‘‘In a way, nerhaps you have. A doctor is grateful to a patient 
who allows himself to be cured, 1 dare say; but naturally the patient 
is still more grateful to the doctor who cures him.” 


28 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


“ You consider yourself cured, then?” cried Everard joyfully. 

“ No, no—not that; how can 1 tell? All 1 know is that Ihave 
tried to obey you implicitly and that I have been much the better for 
it. My disease may be incurable, but it is something to have been 
free of it for a time.” 

“ Don’t you think,” said Everard, “ that you might free yourself 
from it finally, if you would?” 

If I would! But the veiy nature of the disease is that my will 
is gone.” 

“ You fancy so; but the proof that you are mistaken is that you 
desire to escape.” 

“ Desire is one thing, and will is quite another. It has been owing 
to your will, not mine, that I have escaped for a week. I know that 
what 1 say sounds absurd to you,” she added, with a despondent 
gesture, “and 1 don’t wonder at it. There was a time wlien I 
thought all such things just as absurd as you think them now.” 

“ I don’t consider everything absurd that is outside the range of 
my intelligence, Miss Denham,” said Everard, sitting down beside 
her; “ only 1 can not believe that this supernatural power—” 

”1 don’t know that we need call it supernatural,” interrupted 
Laura. 

“ Natural or supernatural, I should be very slow to admit that ab¬ 
solute power over a fellow-creature could be committed to any man. 
Let us assume, however, that it is as you say. Even so, you would 
be sate, according to your view, so long as 1 am with you.” 

” But you can"not be always with me.” 

“ Why not? 1 have very little to offer; 1 am neither rich nor 
clever, nor as young as 1 once was; but—1 love you. Will you not 
let me stand between you and harm?” 

Laura started to her feet with an affrighted look. “ Oh, no!” she 
cried, catching her breath; “ don’t ask me! It is impossible—utterly 
impossible!” 

Everard felt a momentary pang of bitter disappointment, but he 
concealed it bravely. You mean that you don’t love me,” he said, 
in a quiet, steady voice; ”1 could not expect that you should. But 
1 believe that you might come to love me some day; otherwise! 
would not say another word. If I can give you nothing else, I can 
give you peace and protection. Think it over, and allow me a day 
or two of hope before you refuse me decisively.” 

“ You don’t consider what it is that you ask for!” exclaimed the 
girl, trembling and clasping her hands. “1 am not a free agent— 
you have seen that yourself—and neither you nor 1 can tell what 
may happen in the future. 1 might make your life miserable—1 
might even have to leave you. Oh, no! I should care very little for 
you if 1 could consent to drag you into my trouble.” 

” Is it for my sake, then, that you reject me?” asked Everard. 

‘‘ Yes, for your own sake,” he answered unguardedly. u 1 dare 
not take what you offer me; it is too great a risk.” 

“Put the risk on one side for a moment. If it did not exist* 
could you care tor me, do you think?” 

She made no reply; but, looking into her face, he saw there all that 
he wanted to see. ” My dear,” he whispered, drawing her toward 
him, ” your troubles are over and done with now forever,” 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN - . 


29 


Certainly that was rather a bold thing to say about anybody who 
was not yet dead; but the circumstances of the case were, perhaps, 
such as to justify a little hyperbole even in so sober-minded a man 
as Everard. And indeed his language did not strike Laura as hyper¬ 
bolical. From the beginning of their acquaintance she had relied 
instinctively upon him; she had been greatly impressed by what she 
considered as his successful resistance to Souratkin; finally, she was 
young and could not help being sanguine, in spite of the gloomy 
forebodings to which she had just given expression. 

The two lovers paced up and down the Terrace arm-in-arm, until 
long after sunset, oblivious of poor Mrs. Patterson; oblivious, too, of 
the time agreedupon for their return to London. But Everard, when 
at last it occurred to him to consult his watch, observed that trains 
left every half hour or so, and that there really was no need for 
hurry. However, it clearly behooved them to go and wake up their 
long-suffering chaperon, and they prepared to leave the precincts of 
the Castle accordingly. 

Beneath the first archway Everard felt Laura’s hand tighten con¬ 
vulsively on his arm, and, looking up, became aware-of a tall figure 
looming up in the dusk which was unmistakably that of Souratkin. 
It there was one thing about this man which exasperated Everard 
more than another, it was his theatrical way of appearing suddenly 
out of space. Upon this occasion he was more than usually annoyed 
by it; tor he had been taken by surprise and had started, and he 
knew that Laura must have felt him start. For this reason he said 
in the most matter-of-course tone possible: 

“ How do you do. Count Souratkin? I suppose you heard from 
Mrs. Patterson that we were here.” 

“ Precisely so,” answered the count blandly. “ She was becom¬ 
ing alarmed and sent me to look for you.” 

He did not explain how he came to be at Windsor at. all; but that 
circumstance hardly required explanation. Everard was sorry that 
Laura thought fit to ask the question, and still more sorry when 
Souratkin only replied to it by a low laugh. To counteract the 
effect of this ominous sound, he himself said: Oh, all foreigners 
make a point of seeing Windsor; and they are quite right. There 
is nothing finer in England.” 

“ That is not my view,” remarked Souratkin. “ To me a build¬ 
ing like Windsor Castle is a hideous blot upon the landscape—the 
symbol of tyranny—the abode of generations of oppressors.” 

“ 1 don’t know that it is the symbol of anything in particular, ex¬ 
cept of monarchy, which still exists, in a constitutional form, in 
this country,” said Everard. “ As for her majesty, she has neither 
the wish nor the power to oppress her subjects.” 

“ Ah, the power—perhaps not; but there is no monarch who 
would not be a tyrant if he could. What can be more absurd than 
a ruler who is not allowed to rule? Happily, the day of kings and 
queens is nearly over. A few more charges of dynamite and paffl 
—there will be an end of the whole accursed race.” 

" If you hold these opinions, you had better have the courage of 
them and go and blow up your own emperor,” observed Everard, 
dryly; *• but it is easier and safer to talk about committing murder 
than to do it.” 


30 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


Souratkin laughed again. He either had his temper well under 
command, or did not think it worth while to quarrel with the En¬ 
glishman. They all three walked down the hill together, Laura, 
who had relinquished Everard’s arm, keeping her head resolutely 
turned away from Souratkin, who strode along beside her, with his 
hands behind his back, and darted a swift glance at her every now 
and again from between his half-closed eyelids. When they reached 
the turning which leads down to the Great Western station he volun¬ 
teered to go and fetch Mrs. Patterson, an offer which was at once 
accepted by Everard. 

Laura had grown grave and silent, and perhaps her companion 
was not very well advised in remarking: “ 1 think we should encour¬ 
age our friend the Nihilist to carry a few dynamite cartridges about 
with him for the removal of tyrants. The tyrants would not be at 
all likely to suffer in consequence, and there would always be the 
chance of his own abrupt removal to another sphere.” 

“ Don’t laugh at him,” pleaded Laura earnestly, “ and pray, pray 
don’t quarrel with him! I assure you he is not a man to be laughed 
at. He thinks nothing of taking the life of any one who is obnox¬ 
ious to him, he has told me so often.” 

“ I should venture to disbelieve a good deal of what he told me. 
Besides, 1 thought he seemed to be in a particularly amiable humor 
to-night.” 

But she said* “ Ah, that is just what frightens me. He would not 
have been like that if he had meant well. And 1 am sure he knows 
about—about you and me.” 

“ If he doesn’t, it will give me great pleasure to tell him,” said 
Everard. 

Laura raised both her hands to her head and then let them fall de¬ 
jectedly. “ Oh,” she sighed, ”1 hope 1 have not done wrong—1 
hope you will not live to regret that you ever met me! But I am 
afraid!—1 am afraid!” 


CHAPTER VI. 

Everard was not a little disappointed when, on calling at Laura’s 
house the next day. he was told that she was not well enough to re¬ 
ceive him. it was nothing serious, the servant said, but Miss Den¬ 
ham had a bad headache and could not leave her room. Mrs. Pat¬ 
terson had just gone oul. Under these circumstances, there was 
nothing for Everard to do but to scribble, his regrets and sympathies 
on his card and retire; but lie had an uneasy suspicion that Laura’s 
malady was more mental than physical, and for the remainder of 
the day he wandered about restlessly, not knowing what to do with 
himself, and half regretting that he had not forced an entrance, or 
at least demanded fuller particulars. 

So intolerable did his suspense become that he could not bring 
himself to wait twenty-four hours before repeating his call, but 
betook himself to Bayswater on the ensuing morning. “After all,” 
he thought, “ 1 have a right to dispense with formalities now.” 

He was admitted this time, but found only Mrs. Patterson in the 
drawing-room; and as soon as he saw the old lady’s face he perceived 
that there was something wrong. 



THAT TERRIBLE MAH'. 


31 


“ Where is Miss Denham?” he asked in a rather peremptory tone. 

“Don’t scold me.” pleaded Mrs. Patterson, plaintively; ”1 am 
not to blame; and I am sure, it it depended upou me to make things 
smooth for you both, you would have no reason to complain. Un¬ 
fortunately,* nothing depends upon me, not even the power to say 
whether you shall be let into the house or not.” 

“ Do you mean that Miss Denham wishes to forbid me her house?” 
asked Everard, turning a little pale. 

“ Oh, no; not Laura. Poor girl! she would be very unlikely to 
wish that. But you know, I warned you that you must not antici¬ 
pate an easy victory, and now exactly what 1 foresaw bashappened. 
Count Souratkin will not hear of your engagement to my niece.” 

Everard broke into an angrv laugh. “You don’t say so! Then 
of course there must be an end of it. Count Sourat kin’s right to in¬ 
terfere in the matter is incontestaole. and 1 ought certainly to have 
asked his consent before 1 ventured to speak to Miss Denham. My 
only excuse is that it really did not occur to me to do so. As it is 
too late to gain his consent now, I shall—what do you think 1 shall 
do, Mrs. Patterson? It’s very astonishing; but I shall make so bold 
as to dispense with it.” 

Mrs. Patterson shrugged her shoulders. “ It is quite useless to go 
on like that. Sit down, and let us talk things over quietly.” 

Everard took a chair. “lam willing to listen to anything that 
you may have to say, Mrs. Patterson,” he remarked; “ but, 1 may 
as well tell you at once that 1 shall not allow this fellow to stand for 
a moment between me and Laura. She has told me that she loves 
me: she has promised to marry me; and after that, the approval of 
Count Souratkin is a matter of no more interest or importance to me 
than the approval of the crossing-sweeper over the way.” 

“ That may be; but his approval is of great importance to her.” 

“ Why should it be?” 

“ She herself could not tell you why; but we must accept facts. 
At first 1 really thought that site would succeed in defying him. He 
flew into a passion and frightened ine out of my senses; but she did 
not care a bit, and it was only after he had recovered his coolness 
that she seemed to waver. Y’ou can’t imagine anything more curi¬ 
ous to watch than the way in which her will staggered, as it were, 
and then suddenly broke.” 

Mrs. Patterson’s manifest enjoyment of this spectacle was infuriat¬ 
ing to Everard, who nevertheless subdued his wrath. 

“ I think it w ill be all right when 1 have seen her,” he said quietly. 

“ 1 hope so, I’m sure; but you cannot see her to-day. To begin 
with, he has lorbidden it, and—” 

“This is monstrous!” interrupted Everard, jumping up. “Do 
you suppose that t am going to submit to his commands?” 

“ Dear Mr. Everard, remember w r hat I told you; you must have 
patience, and plenty of it. Besides, Laura is really not in a state to 
talk to you to-day. She is completely knocked up, and if she did 
see you, you would gain nothing by it. Shall 1 tell you what 1 
think?” 

“ I shall be very glad,” answered Evemd, siting dow T n again. 

“ Well, then, 1 think that, instead of fighting Count Souratkin, 
you had better try to make terms with him. He did not tell Laura 


32 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


distinctly that lie meant to marry her himself; but he gave me to 
understand as much, and 1 feel convinced that what he wants is not 
her, but her money.” 

“ That is extremely probable. ” 

“ And what you want, 1 imagine, is not her money, but her.” 

“ Do you mean to suggest that Miss Denham should hand over 
her fortune to this man?” 

Mrs. Patterson sighed. 4 ‘ 1 believe that, if she did, he would leave 
her in peace; and peace is better worth having than money.” 

44 1 could never be a party to such a transaction. I can’t prove to 
you that 1 am not mercenary; but 1 will ask you to take my word 
for the fact. As for aiding and abetting Count Souratkin, or any 
other rascal, in a robbery, I wouldn’t do such a thing to save my 
life. Added to which, 1 can imagine no surer way of strengthening 
his hold upon Laura than yielding to him.” 

44 He would cease to persecute her when there was nothing further 
to be gained by doing so.” 

44 So long as she or her husband had a guinea there would always 
be something to be gained. No, Mrs. Patterson; that plan will not 
do. And now, jn spite ot what you have said, I must beg you to let 
Laura know that I am here, and ask her to speak to me, if it is only 
for five minutes.” 

Mrs. Patterson obeyed; but presently she returned, shaking her 
head. 44 Laura is very sorry,” she said; 44 she hopes you will for¬ 
give her, but she does not feel equal to meeting you to-day. If you 
will call to-morrow afternoon between four and five o’clock, she 
will be down-stairs, and of course I will leave you together. Per¬ 
haps you are right about the money; but 1 have my misgivings, I 
own. You are not fighting with a man, but with the devil.” 

‘‘Never yet,” remarked Everard, ‘‘have 1 heard that it is good 
policy to give way to the devil. Moreover, Count Souratkin is not 
the devil at all, but a vulgar Russiau impostor. However, 1 know 
that it is vain to try and persuade you of that.” And so he de¬ 
parted, with an uncomfortable conviction that the vulgar impostor 
had got the better of him this time. 

He had not proceeded a hundred yards down the street when he 
encountered, and almost ran against, the subject ot his thoughts. 
Souratkin smiled, raised his hat, and made as though he would have 
passed on; but Everard, not over wisely perhaps, detained him. 

44 If you are on. your way to call on Miss Denham,” he said, 4< 1 
can save you the trouble of going any further. She is not well 
enough to receive visitors.” 

Souratkin’s smile was ironical, and even a trifle insolent. 4 ‘ That 
is a pity,” he answered; 44 but 1 shall ask for Mrs. Patterson, who is 
no doubt at home.” 

44 Count Souratkin,” said Everard brusquely, 44 1 don’t know why 
1 shouldn’t use plain language with you. Y T ou are aware that Miss 
Denham and 1 are engaged to be married, and 1 hear that, for rea¬ 
sons best known to yourself, you have been trying to put a stop to 
the engagement. Now 1 wish you to understand, once for all, that 
I am not going to tolerate that kind of thing. ” 

Souratkin raised his eyebrows. 44 But, dear sir, how can you help 
tolerating it?” he asked suavely, ”1 am an old friend of Miss 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


33 


Denham, an old friend of her father, and I should think to fail in 
my duty if 1 did not advise her when an important crisis of her life 
presented itself. 1 am not able to advise her to marry you—no, 1 do 
not think you a suitable person to be her husband. It grieves me to 
say this; but in honesty—” 

“ In honesty,” interrupted Everard, 44 you would have to say 
something quite different, and that would not serve your purpose. 
Well, 1 only wanted to warn you that you will find" me a rather 
tougher customer than Mrs. Patterson. Use j r our influence with 
Miss Denham, by all means, and I will use mine. We shall see who 
will win.” 

For an instant Souratkin’s face clouded over and a gleam shot out 
from his narrow eyes. “ Your influence!” he exclaimed roughly; 
44 you have no influence.” But he recovered himself immediately 
and said, with the same bland air as before, 44 So be it, then. As 
you say, we shall see who will win. 1 may be mistaken; but 1 do 
not think that it will be you, my dear sir. Good-day to you.” 

Whether Everard had advanced his own interests in any way by 
provoking this encounter seemed doubtful; but at least he had 
thrown down the gantlet openly to liis adversaiy, and to have done 
that is always a comfort to a straightforward man. Moreover. Sourat¬ 
kin’s momentary trouble had not escaped his notice, and on re¬ 
viewing the situation calmly that nighl, lie was disposed to flatter 
himself that lie had taken the most sensible course. The man’s hold 
upon Laura had evidently been obtained by an affectation of mys¬ 
tery, by a carefully undefined menace of his power to do something 
dreadful to those who thwarted him. If he could be quietly defied 
in her presence to do his worst, and if it should then appear that lie 
could do nothing more than use his eyes in a peculiar fashion, the 
spell would probably be broken there and then. 

When, therefore, the appointed hour on the following afternoon 
came round, and Everard bent his steps once more in the direction 
of Bayswater, it was with the determination of asking [.aura to let 
him meet the enemy face to face. He did not mean to lie over-gentle 
or persuasive with her; he intended to tell her plainly that she must 
choose between him and Souratkin, and he had very little doubt as 
to what her choice would be. 

He was kept waiting for some time before his ring was taken any 
notice of, and when at length the door was opened a couple of 
inches, the dirty face of an old charwoman peered out at him through, 
the aperture. 

44 Fam’ly’s left,” said this person curtly. 

44 Left!” ejaculated Everard; 44 what on earth do you mean?” 

44 Why, gone out o’ town—gone to ihe country, 1 s’pose,” replied 
the old woman; 44 1 don’t know nothin’ about ’em.” 

44 But surely they must have left some address or—or note?” 

44 They ain’t left neither one nor t’other with me. I should say 
you was best go to Mr. Mason’s the ’ouse-agent’s; ’twas ’im as put 
me in ’ere this mornin’. He can tell you their address, I dessay. 
Second turn to the left, the first large furnitur’-ware’us you come 
to.” 

But Mr. Mason, when applied to, professed himself quite unable 
to do this. 44 Really, sir, I am very sorry,” he said, in answer to 

3 


34 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN". 


Everard’s reiterated demands: “ but 1 can give you no information 
at all. We were told last night that Miss Denham Was called away 
suddenly, and only two days ago we received the rent tor the coming 
month. * This morning I went round myself to take the inventory, 
and 1 made a particular point of inquiring whether there was any 
address for letters to be forwarded to; but I was given to understand 
that no letters were expected.” 

“ Did you see Miss Denham herself?” 

u No, sir; 1 saw no one except a tall gentleman, a foreigner by 
the look ot him. I made the remark to him that it was rather un¬ 
usual for a family to move in that sudden way, without saying 
where they were going; but he was very short in his manner; and 
as all claims were paid quite correct, ot course it was not for me to> 
say anything more.” 

Everard ground his teeth in impotent rage. It had never entered 
into his head that such a thing as this could happen, and he could 
not believe that Laura would have allowed herself to be spirited 
away without giving him some clew as to her destination, lie 
hurried back to his looms, half hoping that he might find a letter 
from her awaiting him; and there, sure enough, upon the table lay 
an envelope addressed iu her handwriting. He tore it open and read 
the following words;— 

** Good-by, I can not fight against my fate, and 1 must not ruin 
your life. It would only have made us- both more unhappy if we 
had met to-day. 1 know you will want to follow me; but pray do- 
not attempt that. It would be useless, and indeed I have no idea 
where we are going. I shall never marry any one else—that is all 
that 1 can promise you. Forgive me, if you can, and try to forget 
me. You must see by my going away now that I can not have been 
worthy of you. Any one who had loved you as you deserved to be 
loved would have been able to resist doing that. Thank you a thou¬ 
sand times for alLyour goodness to me, and good-by again. 

“ Laura.” 


CHAPTER Y1I. 

There are very few calamities w T hich appear instantly to be irre¬ 
mediable. In nine cases out ot ten our first emotion on receiving 
bad news is one of incredulity, and out next an instinctive determi¬ 
nation to set the crooked straight forthwith. Everard, after he had 
read Laura’s letter, was very far indeed from giving way to despair. 
He had no thought ot taking her at her word, nor any doubt that 
he should shortly discover her whereabouts and deliver her from 
the unscrupulous ruffian by whom, for the time being, she seemed to 
have been enslaved. He was rather vexed and disappointed than 
alarmed. The whole thing struck him as too melodramatic and pre¬ 
posterous to be real, and he could not bring himself to believe that 
it was possible iu these days for any one to vanish suddenly and 
never reappear. 

Unfortunately, it is precisely in these days of steam-power that 
people who have a mind to vanish find it most easy to do so, and a 
little reflection convinced Everard that., if he wanted to overtake the 



THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


35 

fugitive^ be must lose no time about.it. That they would make 
ior the Continent he telt pretty sure, and he at once hastened to his 
club, where, with the aid of a foreign Bradshaw, he soon satisfied 
Imnself that they could not yet have"'left England by any of the 
ordinary routes. They would have been too late to catch the day serv¬ 
ices, and the probability was that they were at that moment await¬ 
ing I lie departure of the night boat at oue of the southern or south¬ 
eastern ports. As there are no less than seven of these, it became a 
somewhat difficult question to which ot them he had better betake 
himself; but he decided upon Dover, as being on the whole the most 
likely; and then, happening to catch sight of Fellowes yawning over 
the “ Spoilsman,” it struck him that he might contrive to have the 
Queenborough {>oat watched into the bargain. Folkestone he put 
-out of the question, because nobody travels that way at night. 

lie took Fellowes by the arm, led him into a corner, and rapidly 
narrated the circumstances to him. “ And now,” he concluded, 
*‘ 1 want you to do me a great kindness. I want you to run down 
to Queenborough to-night and see whether they go on board.” 

“ All right,” answered Fellowes, endeavoiing to look as if he did 
not at all mind sacrificing the dinner to which he had been en¬ 
gaged. “ Aud if 1 do see them?” 

“Well, then I am afraid you would have to follow them; it 
wouldn’t do to let them out of your sight. You could telegraph to 
me on the first opportunity though.” 

“ But, my dear chap, supposing they go straight through to Yoko¬ 
hama?” 

Everard frowned slightly. “ This isn’t a joking matter, Fel¬ 
lowes.” 

“ No, no, of course not,” agreed Fellowes, hastily assuming an 
appropriate air of solemnity. “ 1 don’t see why they shouldn’t take 
the express for St. Petersburg, all the same. Hope they won’t, I’m 
sure; because 1 do like lo change my clothes every now and then. 
However, anything to oblige a friend.” 

Everard was just one of those calm, logical men who can state at 
a moment’s notice what are the mathematical probabilities in favor 
of or against the occurrence of any given event, and he must have 
'been aware that the chance ot his meeting Laura at Dover was only 
as one in a veiy large number. Nevertheless, he was unreasonably 
disappointed when bis mission proved a failure. He went on board 
the Calais and Ostend boats and subjected the passengers to a close 
scrutiny; but the persons of whom he was in search were not among 
them, and he had to get through the time as best he could until the 
Paris mail came in, wjien he returned to London, appearing at his 
rooms at the scandalous hour of seven o’clock in the morning. He 
bad scarcely finished dressing when Fellowes arrived, haggard and 
unshaven, from Queenborough, where, as he plaintively said, he had 
spent a truly miserable night m vain, 

“ 1 don’t mean to grumble, you know,” he added—” always de¬ 
lighted to suffer in a good cause. Only it strikes me that we are 
setting to work in a rather unscientific way. It’s like stopping a 
couple of earths and leaving any number ot others open, don’t you 
know.” 


36 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH, 


“ What could I do?” asked Everard despondingly. “ It was a a 
00 chance; but 1 thought it worth trying.” 

“ And what \s the next move to be?” 

“ I haven’t an idea.” 

‘‘It is a proud thing,” observed Fellowes reflectively, “ to be a 
free-born Bril on; but there are times when one teels the disadvan¬ 
tages of it too. Now, supposing w r e had been in Souratkin’s native 
land, our course would have been perfectly clear. We should only 
have had to get somebody to introduce us to the chief of the police, 
and in twenty-four hours, or less, we should have spotted our friends 
to a dead certainly. But 1 suppose Scotland Yard wouldn’t help us. 
if it could, and couldn’t if it would. What do you think about 
applying at a Private Inquiry Oiiice?” 

Everard did not much iancy this plan; but after some discussion 
he was fain to adopt it, no alternative suggesting itself to him, and 
in the course of the day he had an interview with an alert gentleman, 
of uncertain nationality who had once been a detective, and who now, 
according to his own account, had offices and emissaries in all quar¬ 
ters of the globe. This personage knew all about Count Souratkin* 
and was confident of being able to lay his hand upon him, although., 
as he pointed out, the count’s long experience in the art of baffling 
pursuit made him a somewhat difficult person to trace. ‘‘But we 
shall obtain a clew, sir,” he added; “ we shall obtain a clew before 
long, depend upon it.” 

And indeed he was even better than his word, for he obtained no3 
one clew only but half a dozen. Persons corresponding to the de¬ 
scription given of Souratkin and the two ladles had, it appeared, been 
seen to leave PaddiDgton, Charing Cross, Victoria, and Euston, on 
the day of their supposed departure from Loudon, and had likewise 
been observed since in Edinburgh, Dublin, and Liverpool at one and. 
the same time. All these cases had, of course, to be investigated^ 
and no small expenditure of time and money was required before 
they were satisfactorily proved to have been cases of mistaken 
identity. Everaid, consumed with anxiety, went every day to the 
Inquiry Office, and was always received with imperturbable good 
humor and oracular encouragement. “We are progressing, sir— 
we are progressing,” he was told. “We have now ascertained be¬ 
yond a doubt that the count is not in Paris—and so forth.” 

“But it doesn’t interest me in the least to hear where he isn’t,” 
Everard would protest. “ 1 want to know where he is.” 

To this there could be no rejoinder, save a shrug of the shoulders 
and an exhortation to be patient. 

Thus three long weeks passed—weeks which Everard has never 
forgotten, and is not likely to forget to his dying day. He attended 
to his business, being unable to sit idle from morning to night; he 
took food and sleep, since both are necessary to support life; but the 
agony of suspense from which he suffered was not the less, perhaps, 
because his nature would not allow him to display it in any violent 
or exaggerated form. Hope did not entirely desert him; jet he was 
too clear-sighted to ignore the gravity of the situation, and too sen¬ 
sible to build much upon poor Laura’s promise to marry nobody 
but himself. For a time, no doubt, she would hold out, bui for how 
long? This was the question which Everard asked himself all day 


THAT TERRIBLE HAH. 3? 

long and every day, and he was without del* upbh which ip ground 
■9H answer to it. 

Sitting down to breakfast, tev? morning, he found, amongst the 
letters on the table, one addressed in a shaky handwriting unknow: 
to him. He ODened it listlessly; but when he had glanced at thb. 
first words his heart gave a great leap and the color rushed into his 
cheeks. The letter, which was almost illegible in parts and was 
blotted, as with tears, ran as follows: 

“ Royal Hotel, Dual. 

“ Dear Mr. Everard,— 1 feel that 1 must write to you. It is a 
dreadful risk—not to me alone—that would not matter, for 1 am 
only an old woman, and my life is nearly over at any rate—but to 
you and Laura; yet there is nothing else to be done. II, after the 
way in which you have been treated, your feelings are unaltered, 
and it you wish to save my niece from a terrible fate, come here at 
once. L will explain everything to you when we meet—that is, if 
we meet. 1 am not sure whether it would be safe for you to stay 
in this house oi not; but perhaps you might, as he is not living 
here. Whatever you do, pray, on no account let him see you. H© 
always comes in after dinner, but very seldom during the day. You 
might ask whether we were alone and then send in your card. Be* 
lieve me, dear Mr. Everard, most sincerely yours, 

‘ Sarah Patterson. *’ 

It need hardly be said that within an hour of the receipt of this 
appeal Everard was speeding toward Deal as fast as an express train 
could take him. He reached his destination early in the afternoon, 
proceeded to the Royal Hotel, and, having discovered by inquiry 
th^f Miss Denham w as out, but that Mrs. Patterson was at home, 
had himself shown at once into the presence of the latter lady. 

Mrs. Patterson rushed across the room to meet him, and seized 
him by both hands. “Oh, Mr. Everard!” she exclaimed; “ how 
good and generous of you to come! I was afraid you ’would never 
forgive us.” 

“We needn’t mind about that,” answered Everard. “Laura 
would not have made me suffer if she could have helped it, and as 
for you, I had no claim upon you. Besides, you have sent for me 
now.” 

“ And 1 should have sent for you before,” cried Mrs. Patterson, 
eagerly, “only—only—” 

“ Only you were afraid,” suggested Everard. 

“1 admit that 1 was afraid; I had reason to be. But 1 should 
have written to you, notwithstanding, if I had believed that the 
worst would come. I didn’t believe it. He assured me solemnly, 
before we left London, that he would never make Laura marry him 
against her wish, and I could not guess that she would ever wish, 
it.” 

“ Good Heavens! Does she wish it?” 

“She says so. His influence over her has increased to such an 
extent that she has no wishes now but his. Yesterday she told me 
that she had consented to many him, and when i reproached her 
she hardiy seemed to understand me. I sent for you because 1 
know that you can influence her strongly, though not so strongly as 


38 that terrible man. 

ke c ^ and betuiisecoming was the only chance left of saving 
Yes, saving herlrr?^ for all tbigi" Inning her. If me crsTt 
MOes become Count SouratkinwIYith, it will not be long before he is 
left in sole possession of her property. And he won’t take her money 
without her. 1 asked him point-blank whether he would, and he 
flew into one of his frightful passions, declaring that it was not her 
fortune that he loved. Then he read my thoughts—as you know 
he can—and swore that if I brought you down here he would mur¬ 
der me and you too. ’ ’ 

“ Threatened men live long,” remarked Everard. 

“ That depends upon who threatens them. Nothing is more cer¬ 
tain than that your life will be in very great danger if Count Sou- 
ratkin discovers that you are here; and for Laura’s sake as well as 
for your own, I do trust that you will take care not to let him see 
you.'” 

“ 1 can’t bind myself as to that,” answered Everard, with an im¬ 
patient gesture. “ 1 should think he is pretty sure to see me.” 

“ Not if you are careful. He only comes into Deal in the evening. 
Where he lives 1 don’t quite know; but 1 heard from some of the 
trades-people that he had taken a small cottage somewhere between 
this and Sandwich. He has said nothing about it to us, he is always 
apt to be mysterious. * ’ 

“ Naturally he is. Mystery is the backbone of his profession.” 

“ What profession? He has none that 1 know of. I fancy that 
he keeps his address a secret because he has meetings of conspirators 
or something of that kind at his house. Anyhow, we scarcely ever 
see him until after dinner; and what 1 hope is, that if Laura is with 
you during the day, she may lay in a stock of strength, as it were, 
to oppose him in the evening. There she is—1 hear her step o»the 
stairs. Now 1 shall go away and leave you with her; so good-by 
for the present. 1 am sure 1 need, not warn you to be kind and 
patient.” 

And Mrs. Patterson slipped out of the room by one door as Laura 
entered at the other. 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

When Lauia saw who was waiting for her, she stopped short, 
her pale lips moving, but no sound coming from them. Then in a 
low voice she exclaimed, “ Oh, why have you done this?” 

“It is I who sliouldHisk this question,” returned Everard rather 
sadly. “ Why have you had so little faith in me? Why have you 
left me? Why have } r ou broken your word?” 

She did not answer. She stood before him, her arms hanging list¬ 
lessly, her head slightly bent, and her sorrowful eyes cast down. 
At last—“ Was it Aunt Sarah who told you where we were?” she 
asked. 

“ Yes, it was; and I can never be grateful enough to her. 1 have 
beeu seeking for you high and low and could get no trace of you, 
though you were so near me all the time it seems. But 1 have found 
you at last, thank God! and no one shall ever separate us again.” 

Lauia raised her eyes and looked at him, fiowning a little and 


TIT.VT TERRIBLE JIAA. 3$ 

seeming as if she did not quite take in his meaning. “ Has Aunt 
Sarah told you—everything?” she asked, after a minute. 

“ She told me that you have engaged yourself to that man. Ju'sf 
at first I was startledbut 1 am not going to be so foolish as tc 
upbraid you. I know that you are not responsible for anything 
that you have done. Let us forget it. Some day, if you like, you 
shall tell me how it all happened; but not unless you like. I am 
content either way now that I have found you again.” 

Laura sighed deeply. “ You are very generous,” she murmured. 

“ My dear,” answered Everard, “ if you had deceived me and I 
had forgiven you, that might have been generous; but it is not you 
yourself who have caused me these weeks of agony—1 know that. 
The shortest anti best way is to let bygones be bygones and make a 
fresh start.” 

‘‘That is not possible,” she answered, shaking her head—” at 
least it is not possible tor me. It is for you; and it is what 1 want 
you to do. Oh, why don’t you despise me?—why don’t you hate 
me? 1 should if 1 were in jour place.” 

“ 1 don’t think you would,” said Everard tranquilly. 11 1 loye 
you, and 1 know that you love me. More than that 1 don’t ask, or 
even care very much to know. Nothing else is of any real conse¬ 
quence.” 

“ How good you are!” cried the girl, suddenly seizing his hand 
and pressing it to her lips. “I do love you! Oh, can’t we escape? 
—can’t you take me away somewhere and save me?” 

“Why, of course 1 can,” answered Everard, folding her in his 
arms. “ My darling, you belong to me and to no one else in the 
world. If any one else thinks he can get possession of you let him 
come and try, that’s all.” 

But she wrenched herself away from him with a revulsion of feel¬ 
ing as abrupt as the last. “ No, no!” she exclaimed, “ it can’t be! 
It is madness to dream of it. He would kill you!” 

“Good Heavens, what nonsense!” ejaculated Everard. “How 
am 1 to convince you that this is the most absurd hallucination? 
As if I should stand still to be killed!—and as if a man who uttered 
such empty threats were in the least likely to carry them out!” 

“Ah,” she sighed, “ you don't know what he is; you have never 
seen him angry. Before we left London he swore to me that ho 
would kill you rather Ilian that 1 should ever be your wife; and I 
know be meant it; it was no empty threat.” 

“ Was it because he said that that you left London?” 

“ Yes, partly—or rather, no; I don’t want you to think better of 
me than 1 deserve. I went away because—because 1 had to do as 
he told me. When 1 wrote to you, 1 thought I might safely prom¬ 
ise to remain unmarried all my life; but even in that 1 overrated my 
strength. 1 can’t resist him. And 1 did not know then that be¬ 
loved me. ' ’ 

“ 1 don’t for one moment believe that he does, ” returned Everard} 
“ and if he did, would that make any difference?” 

“ I suppose it would,” she answered slowly. “ Can you under¬ 
stand that one may loathe a person and yet feel that his wishes must 
be in a sort of way one’s own wishes?” 

“lam not sure that I can.” 


‘40 THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 

“ Nc; to you it is only an lysterical fancy; but to me it is as real 
as anything else in life. 1 can’t explain how 1 feel; 1 can only tell 
you that so it is.” 

“ You did not feel so a moment ago.” 

“ Because for a moment 1 forgot. Don’t try to make me forget _ 
again; it would be useless and—and cruel.” 

.She had been speaking in a calm, despairing sort of fashion; but _ 
now her manner became more excited. “ Don’t .you see,” she went “ 
on, “ what would happen if we were married? Don’t you see that 
'he would follow us wherever we went, and that, even if he spared 
your life, he would not spare me? It is horrible to think of it, and * 
1 was obliged to think of it, and I was obliged to acknowledge to 
myself that he might make me leave you and go to him. After ad- _ 
milting that, 1 could only admit that 1 had better be his wife. Per¬ 
haps 1 shall not live long; at any rate, 1 shall not bring misery and 
disgrace upon you. There!— now you know it all.” 

“And now that I know it all, what do you wish me to do?” 
asked Everard. 

“ There is but one thing that you can do; you must go away and " 
leave me to my fate. 1 hope—I pray, that 1 may never see you 
again after this! Not because 1 don’t love you, God knows!—but 
because our meeting could only bring you unhappiness. Poor Aunt - 
Barah meant to be kind when she wrote to you; but it was no kind¬ 
ness really, and 1 am afraid your having come here will make it 
harder for you to forget. I should like to tell you how grateful 1 
am to you, and how very, very sorry it makes me to think that 1 
have caused you suffering; but it is best to say no more. Please go 
now. 1 ’ 

Everard knelt down beside the chair into which she had sunk. 

“ Laura,” he said, gently, “ 1 have listened to you; will you listen 
for a minute to me? Perhaps your feelings are a little beyond my 
comprehension but certainly mine can be understood easily enough. 
Do you think that I, or any-man who loved you, could be capable 
of ‘leaving 3^011 to your fate’? Admitting, for the sake of argu¬ 
ment, that such a risk as you speak of exists, do you think that 1 
would not a thousand times rather run it than turn my back upon 
you when you most need help, and tamely give up all that makes 
fife worth having to ayself? Isn’t it self-evident that no human 
being could act in that way?” 

“ But it is not the only risk!” cried Laura. “ It is one risk, and 
a very terrible one, 1 think, but it isn’t the only one. You won’t 
believe that your life would be in danger; but indeed, indeed it 
would. Yes, and it is in danger even now. He might come in at 
any moment; and it he found you heie!”— 

“ He most assuredly will find me here,” observed Everard, smil- J 
ing, “ for 1 have no intention of leaving the room until he enters it.” *" 

Laura started to her feet. “ That must not be!—anything rather - 
than that!” she exclaimed vehemently. “ Listen, I will promise you 
something, if 3 r ou will promise in return to go away now, and not 
to attempt to see me while he is here. 1 wiil promise to tell him 
that 1 love you, and that 1 can never love him. Perhaps he may 
3 r et let me off; it is possible. lie has said all along that he would - 
not many me without my consent.” 


THAT TERRIBLE HAH. 4l 

*' At the same time doing: all that he could to make you fancy thafc 
you wished to marry him.” 

“ That is no more than every one would do. Of course 1 have 
told him the same thing before; but 1 was only half-hearted about 
# it; 1 thought it would be no good. I shall speak to him in a differ¬ 
ent way now.” 

“ My poor child, you are only staving off the evil day.” 

‘‘And if I am? A day staved off is something. 1 know what 
you are thinking; but you need have no fear. If you doubt me, 
you can tell the servants to let you know the moment that I leave 
~ the house; but 1 shall not leave it. Let me—let yourself have this 
last chance!” 

, Everard yielded somewhat reluctantly. An appeal to Sourat- 
kin’s mercy did not seem to him likely to meet with success; but on 
the other hand he had no desire to come to blows with that redoubta¬ 
ble personage in the presence of a lady. He withdrew to his bed¬ 
room and stationed himself by the window, awaiting, with such 
" patience as he could command, the approach of the enemy. The 
latter, however, did not appear, and after a time he went down to 
the coffee-room and disposed of a hasty dinner. It was while he 
was thus employed that he at length saw the tall figure of the count 

- pass along the street and enter the hotel. 

, “ Know anythin’ o’ that gent, sir?” inquired the waiter who was 

serving him, and who had already been discouraged in several at¬ 
tempts to enter into conversation. 

” 1 have met him, ” answered Everard shortly. 

“ ’Ave you indeed, sir? Now, it you could be so kind as to tell 
me somethin’ about him—leastways somethin’ to liis advantage, it 
’d be a kind o’ comfort to me, sir. Down ’ereabouts we think he’s 
a Irisk-American, which his accent is very sing’lar, as you’ve no¬ 
ticed, sir, I dessay.” 

" He is a ’Russian, if that makes your mind any easier,” said 
Everard. 

‘‘A Rooshian—dear, dearl Sour-Atkins, he calls hisself; but 

- he’d assoom a name, no doubt, for to put people off the scent. 
What 1 says is, why does he go and take a cottage a mile and a ’arf 
away from any other habitation? Why don’t he keep no servant? 

~ What is he up to?—that’s what 1 want to know.” 

“ I’m afraid 1 can’t enlighten you,” answered Everard. ” Is it 
any particular business of yours?” 

i ” Well, it is and it ain’t, sir. ’Tis not on my own account I’m 
uneasy; but my sister’s ’usband, sir, he’s in the county constabu¬ 
lary, and as courageous a man, sir, as you or me. But there’s jobs 
as is enough to terrify the boldest, and no later ’n yesterday he says 
to me, ‘ It’s bore in upon me,’ he says, ‘ as 1 skail be bordered to 
search that there teller’s premises afore long, and it do make my 
blood run cold to think of it.’ His very words, sir. For ’tis one 
; thing to arrest desperate characters—which comes in the way of 
dooty to all perlice, both borough and county, at times— and ’tis 
j quite another to get messin’ about with them beastly internal 
machines and nitre o’glycerines and such-like. It’s a bit ’ard on a 
inDercent man in the hexecootion of his dooty, sir, 1 o *ave his re¬ 
mains that mangled that they can’t be given decent burial—a leg 


THAT TERRIBLE HAH. 


42 

’ere, a liaim there, and Ills ’ead nowhere, maybe. The American, 
gov’ment ought to be ’eld responsible, sir—my opinion.” 

“ I think you may safely reassure your brolher-in-law,” Everard 
said. “ It is extremely unlikely that lie will be ordered to search 
this gentleman’s premises, and still more unlikely that he would 
find any infernal machines upon them, it he were. Where is this 
cottage that you speak of ?” 

“ A little way off the Sandwich road, sir, in as lonely a place as 
you’ll find. The gent he’ve been there off and on for a matter of 
three months now, and if he comes down ’ere for nothin’ more ~ 
than sea air and quiet—well, he don’t look like it, that’s all 1 can 
say; nor yet he don't talk like it. Why, ’taint so long ago lie steps ^ 
into this very room one evenin’ and gets into conversation with two 
commercials as was talkin’ about them diefful explosions in London, 
and ' You ain’t heerd the last o’ that,’ he says, smilin’ and lookin’ 
as pleased as ever he could look: and ‘ dynamite’s a powerful argy- 
ment,’ he says. One o’ the commercials passed the remark to me 
arterwards that a man as would say such things didn’t ought to - 
be at large.” 

Tlie waiter paused for a moment and then added: “ 1 ’ope you’ll 
escuse o’ me mentionin’ it, sir, but it really do distress me to see the ' 
way he carries on with that pore young lady upstairs. Rooshian 
or American, he’s a bad lot; and if you’re a friend o’ hers, sir—” 

But Everard judged it best to put a stop to this loquacity. ” The 
young lady is perfectly safe,” he said, rising; “ and 1 think you - 
would do well to bear in mind, that the first duty of a man in your 
Responsible position is to hold his tongue.” 

“ Yes, sir; very true, sir,” replied the waiter, who did not seem 
to be easily snubbed. “ What time would you -please to ’ave your 
breakfast in the mornin’, sir?” 

Everard strolled out into the strest and lighted a cigar. It was 
growing dusk, so that there was little likelihood of his being recog¬ 
nized by Souratkin, should the latter come out suddenly; but as far ~ 
as that went, he would not at all have objected to being recognized. 
That he must have an encounter of some sort or kind with the Rus¬ 
sian ere long seemed tolerably certain, and he now began to think *“ 
that it might be as well to follow the man home that very night.and 
get the thing over. He smiled as it occurred to him how r frightened 
Laura would be if she knew that he proposed bearding the lion in - 
his den. For his own part, he had no fears, and strongly suspected 
his enemy of being nothing more formidable than an ass in a lion’s 
skin, which, it was now high time to pull oft his shoulders. He 
sauntered up and down, therefore, while the twilight deepened into 
darkness, not liking to leave his post, although he was aware that 
he was becoming an object of curiosity to the shopkeepers, who had 
put their shutters up, and were lounging in the doorways, as well as 
to his friend the waiter, whose round eyes could be discerned above 
the wire blinds of the coffee-room. 

It was not until past ten o’clock that he was relieved of his self 
imposed sentry duty. Souratkin stepped out into the street-and 
walked swiftly away, his head bent and his hands clasped' behind 
his back. Everard let him have a short start and then followed 
him, keeping in the shadow of the walls and moving as noiselessly 


TTTAT TERRIBLE ttAN, 


43 


as he could. He did not want to be accosted out of doors, having 
an impression that he would be better able to hold his own during, 
the coming interview within four walls. There was no moon; but 
the sky was clear, so that he was able without difficulty to keep in 
sight the dark form of the Russian, who uever looked round. 

Souratkin made his way through the straggling outskirts ot Deal 
into the country bej r ond, and after proceeding some little distance 
along the high road toward Sandwich, turned abruptly down a lane 
to the right." A walk of about a mile across the flat, low-lyius re¬ 
gion which here borders the sea, brought him and his pursuer to a 
laborer’s cottage, which for loneliness of situation certainly seemed 
to deserve the character given of it by the waiter. Everard heard 
the key turned in the lock, and directly afterward a light appeared 
at one of. the latticed windows. 

Then for the first time it struck him that the proper course for a 
prudent person to pursue would be to go home and call again in the 
light of day. He was a fairly strong man, but he hardly believed 
himself to "be Souratkin’s equal in physique, and as to weapons of 
defense, he had nothing with him but a light walking stick. Any 
stick, however, will serve to beat a cur with, and he felt sure that 
this fellow was a cur. Besides, nobody likes to walk two miles at 
night in pursuit of a certain object and then turn back out of pru¬ 
dential considerations. Everard, therefore, advanced and rapped 
loudly on the door. Almost immediately it was flung open, and 
Souratkin, a candle in one hand and a revolver in the other, stood 
before him. 

“ Don’t shoot me,” said Everard, quietly. “ lam not a burglar.” 

Souratkin manifested no surprise. “ Always enchanted to see 
you, dear sir, at any hour of the day or night. Pray, come in.” 

Everard did as he was requested, and the moment after he had 
crossed the threshold the door was slammed, locked, and barred be¬ 
hind him. He turned round and saw that Souratkin was standing 
with his back against it. For an instant he experienced an unpleas¬ 
ant shock, as if he had walked into a trap with his eyes open, and 
this impression was evidently detected by his host, who said, with 
his faint, ironical smile: 

“ You will pardon my precautions, Mr. Everard, the district is 
such a solitary one, you see. Are you at all nervous?” 

“ Not in the least,” said Everard, stolidly. 

“How fortunate! 'Will you do me the favor to walk into my 
humble sitting-room? 1 cannot offer you many luxuries, but 1 have 
some brandy and 1 believe 1 have two chairs. I shall feel greatly 
honored if you will occupy one of them.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Count Souratkin had used no conventional langnage in calling 
his sitting-room a humble one, for it had neither carpet nor curtains, 
and its furniture consisted solely of a bare deal table and a couple of 
wooden chairs. Upon the table were writing materials and a mass 
ot letters and papers, some half dozen books were piled upon the 
mantel-shelf, and there was absolutely nothing else in the room. 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


44 

The count went to a cupboard in the wall and took out a bottle 
and tAvo glasses. “ Please beseated,” said he. “ Do you take water 
with your brandy?” 

“ 1 won’t have anything to drink, thank you,” answered Everard. 

“ Are you indeed so abstemious? 1 envy you.” 

He more than half filled his own glass, and tossed oft the contents 
without so much as winking. This heroic potion appeared to pro* 
dure no effect upon him, except to make his eyes somewhat brighter. 
He was standing opposite to his guest, whom he was surveying, as 
usual, from between half-shut eyelids, while a smile still hovered 
about his lips. 

“ You wonder why 1 live in such a dog-hole, do you not?” he 
asked, suddenly. 

“ I am not inquisitive,” replied Everard. 

” No? Then you must be very unlike the good people of Deal. 
They have exhausted themselves in conjectures; they take me, 1 be* 
lieve, for a coiner or some other kind of criminal—to me il is quite 
the same thing what they think. In truth solitude suits me; and I 
have, besides, another reason for living here, such a simple one that 
nobody would ever guess it. It is that 1 am too poor to take a de¬ 
cent lodging and that 1 get this cottage for next to nothing.” 

He paused for a moment. Perhaps he really had the gift which 
Mrs. Patterson claimed tor him of discovering what was passing 
through other people’s minds; at all events, he read Everard’s 
thoughts now. ‘‘Ah, the Langham Hotel,” he said, ‘‘yes, to be 
sure, that is an expensive place "to live in; but when 1 go to Lon¬ 
don, you see, 1 go upon the business of those who can afford to pay. 
1 do not mind saying this to you, dear Mr. Everard, because you are 
so discreet and your countenance invites confidence. Will you be a 
little candid with me in return and answer me one question?” 

‘‘ With pleasure.” , 

“To what, then, do 1 owe the honor of your visit to-night?” 

“ 1 dare say you can guess, but of course 1 am quite willing to 
tell you. I am here simply because you and l must come to an. 
understanding, and because it is better, for Miss Denham’s sake, 
that we should not meet in her presence. There is no use in pre- 
•nding to ignore the fact that you have established asort of ascend- 
’i y over her, and although that will have to come to an end 

•v, I would rather that it came to an end quietly.” 

■ Mr. Everard, do you know that you are not very courteous?” 

“ You can hardly expect courtesy from me, Count Souratkin, con¬ 
sidering what, the circumstances are. You have shown yourself my 
’enemy and 1 treat you as such.” 

“In short, you have come here to defy me.” 

“ Well, yes—if you like to put it in that way.” 

“ And did you bring a revolver wiih you, may 1 ask?” 

Everard shrugged his shoulders. “ No,” he answered, “ X didn't 
bring a revolver.” 

“ Permit me to compliment you upon your courage.” 

“ Thank you; but 1 don’t see much occasion for "alarm.” 

c ‘ Pardon me; that is perhaps because you are too stupid to see it.” 
" Perhaps so. At the same time 1 am not stupid enough to be 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 45 

scared because you have chosen to tell Mrs. Patterson that you pro¬ 
posed to murder me. Barking dogs don’t bite, Count Souratkin.” 

“ Ah, that is so like an Englishman? You will never understand 
that file world is not peopled with Anglo Saxons. You, when you 
love, you say to the lady ‘ 1 love you,’ and that is sufficient. Who¬ 
ever says ,ov does lpore is iusincere, theatrical—wliat not? When 
you hate you bring an action at law against the map who has injured 
you and recover damages; or it may be that, if you are very angry 
i'lihed, you will have a boxing match with him and make his nose 
l-«ed. But to stab or. to kill out of jealousy or revenge—oh, nol 
u cannot admit that. That is not practical at all. That gets you 
i trouble with the police, leads you to prison, possibly to the gab 
o \ s. And so, when one says to you 4 Move out of my path or I 
will remove you from it,’ you only laugh and do not believe, and 
•stand stili. Well now, Mr. Everard, 1 will tell you that you never 
did a more foolish thing in your life than when you came here to* 
night, and 1 will prove it to you in pour own practical English way. 
Y'ou own that 1 exercise .an ascendency over Miss Denham: what 
you have not, perhaps, realized is that you yoursblf exeicise an as¬ 
cendency still stronger over her. But for you she would have mar¬ 
ried me—yes, and loved me, too. Y T ou see, then, that 1 have a very 
real interest in putting you to death.” 

44 1 don’t think you will do it, all the same,” remarked Everard, 
composedly. 

44 You don’t? You are a little difficult to convince, but I shall 
endeavor to convince you.” 

44 Endeavor, by all means,” returned Everard. 

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he was lying on 
the floor, face downward, with Souratkin kneeling upon his back. 
The Russian had sprung upon him with such suddenness that he 
scarcely knew wlmt had happened, much less had time to defend 
himself. In another minute his arms were bound tightly behind 
his back with a pocket handkerchief; after which Souratkin. rising 
and fete-lung a rope from tlie cupboard, proceeded to pinion his cap¬ 
tive scientifically hand and foot. All this time Everard had been 
kicking and struggling to the best of bis ability; but the oilier was 
far more than a match tor him, and, for any good that he did, he 
might as welfhave submitted quietly from the outset. 

When the pinioning process was completed, Souratkin placed him 
• ■ sitting posture on the ground, with his hack against the wall,, 
.ad said, “ You will perceive, .Mr. Everard, that you are now costs'] 
pletely in my power. You might shout until von lost your hn atii, 
and nobody would hear you. Have 1 proved m} r case to your satis¬ 
faction?” 

44 No,” replied Everard, doggedly, ‘‘ you haven’t You have 
proved th$t you can kill me; but that 1 knew before. What f 
said was that you wouldn’t do it. You will most unquestionably 
be hanged it you do. Unless l return to the hotel before morning 
1 shall be mi<sed, and suspicion will immediately point to you be¬ 
cause a number of people saw me waiting for you outside, and may, 
for aught I know, have seen me follow you. You are already 
known to the police, and your chance of escape would be scarcely 
worth considering.” 



46 


THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 


“ Unfortunately for you,” observed Souratkin, who had produced', 
his revolver from his breast-pocket, ”1 have thought Of all that. 
My course is beautifully simple. 1 have a second weapon exactly 
resembling the one that you see. When 1 have killed you, [ turn it- 
toward myself and fire, grazing my right arm, and inflicting a slight 
wound. 1 then place it in your hand, and 'presently your fingers 
stiffen round it. After that, 1 hasten to the nearest police'Station. 

* Ah, gentlemen, 1 am desolated! 1 have had the misfortune to kill 
a man!’ 1 explain the circumstance as well as my agitation will 
allow me. We were rivals, you were furious against me because 
you considered that 1 had robbed you ot the affections of the lady 
whom 1 am about to marry; you followed me to my house in the 
dead of the night; some angry words wore exchanged; you seized 
one of the pistols which 1 keep always loaded as a "protection 
against burglars, and which, by ill-luck, was lying on the table; 
you fired, and 1, wliat with the instinct of self-defense, and 
what with the smart of the wound, returned the fire. To my 
horror, 1 discovered that my bullet had entered your heart! 1 sink 
upon a bench, overpowered by grief and remorse. 1 demand to be 
taken to prison, there to await my trial. Do you tjiink that any jury 
could convict me of murder upon such evidence? Do you think, by 
chance, that Mrs. Patterson or Miss Denham would state that they 
had heard me threaten your life? Not they! They would know 
nothing:. Even you will concede that 1 have power enough over 
them to close their lips w r hen 1 exert it. Prepare, theD, for death.” 

The last four words were spoken in a totally different voice from 
the preceding ones. Souratkin’s face expressed a diabolical joy. 
His narrow eyes were gleaming; his lips were drawn back, showing 
his white, pointed teeth; he slowly raised his revolver and covered 
his helpless victim. 

It wou’d, perhaps, be asserting too much to say that Everard was 
not frightened now; but he kept his presence of mind. 

“ Stop a bit, Souratkin,” he said. “ My life is worth something 
to me, and I’m willing to buy it ot you. I’m not a rich man; but 
I’ll give you two thousand to let me go.” 

Souratkin lowered bis pistol and brok ■ into a short laugh. “ Oh, 
these English!— traders even with their last breath! And so two 
thousand pounds is the value that you put upon yourself? It must 
be confessed that you are not proud. No, my dear sir, it is not with 
that sum that you can buy me off. Let us w r aste no more time in 
words.” 

He raised the revolver once more; there was a flash, a report, and 
Everard heard the bullet strike the wall just above his head. A lit¬ 
tle of the plaster fell upon him. 

When the smoke cleared away, he saw Souratkin contemplating 
him with a derisive smile. Evidertly die man had no ; meant to hit 
him. “ 1 wonder whether he is amusing himself by torturing me or 
whether he is ready going to let me oft,” thought Everard. “ Either 
way, he sha’n’t have the triumph ot knowing what a funk 1 am in.” 

He gazed steadily at the Russian, wno presently laid his pistol 
down on the table with a sigh. “ Aou are a brave man, Mr. Ever- 
ard,” he said. ‘‘ You have courage—whatever that may be worth. 
It is not an uncommon quality; but sm-b as it is, you have it. I 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


47 


have no intention of killing you, although there is nothing in the 
world to prevent my doing so; tor, as it happens, I do not mind 
being hung. In a few minutes you will be tree to go where you 
please. In short, you have beaten me; and 1 should gain nothing 
at all by taking your life.'’ 

■Everard stared. " Do you mean what you say?” he asked. 

“ You will soon know whether 1 mean it or not. Listen, Mr. 
Everard: 1 am not the adventurer that 3*011 take me tor. I admit 
that, when my friend Denham died, I thought 1 should like very- 
well to have his daughter’s money*. 1 do possess—believe me or not 
as you choose—the gift of imposing iny will upon those who are 
weaker than myself, and 1 could easily have induced her to marry 
me, in spite of the tact that 1 was personally distasteful to her. Why 
did 1 not use my power? Because 1 found out that 1 loved her. 1 
xeally do not know why you should look incredulous. Am 1 less ca¬ 
pable of love than you because, instead of being a London wine mer¬ 
chant, 1 am a visionary who has spent his life and his fortune in try¬ 
ing to help forward the cause of his fellow-countrymen? Well, 1 
let her go. I knew where she was; but I did not choose to follow 
ber, partly because I hoped to conquer my passion, and partly 
because 1 had made such an unfavorable impassion upon her 
at starting, that 1 wished to obliterate it. Whether she would 
actually have married me it you had not sought her out, 1 do not 
know; but 1 doubt it. To-day, when she told me that she abhorred 
me and that she would always love you, I knew that you were here, 
and 1 knew also that there was no hope for me. 1 did not mention 
it to her—you can tell her to-morrow, it you like. 1 won’t detain 
you longer, Mr. Everard. After this we shall meet no more, and 
neither you nor Miss Denham have any further annoyance to fear 
from me. Allow me to untie these cords for you.” 

lie stooped down and deftly unfastened the knots which he had 
tied, and presently Everard rose to his feet, a free and a somewhat 
bewildered man. 

“ If 1 have done you an injustice. Count Souratkin, 1 am sorry 
for it,” he said, rather awkwardly; ” but at the same time—” 

* “ At the same time, you would like to reserve your opinion as to 
that. 1 give you full leave to do so—the more willingly because it 
is really no fault of yours that you are unable to understand a nature 
which is in some respects superior to your own. You will ccrtainjy 
always do your best to make Laura happy, and probably you wan 
succeed. Had she loved me she might have been happier; but it is 
also possible that she might have been wretched, for 1 am jealous 
and exacting. It you had lost her you would not have broken your 
bfeart; 1 , wBo have lost her, am beyond reach of consolation. That, 
too, you cannot believe. But in truth it is a matter of no importance 
at all whether you believe me or not. Good-by.” 

He had been leading his visitor toward the door while he spoke. 
He now pushed him gently through it, and shut and barred it be¬ 
hind him. 


48 


THAT TERRIBLE HAH, 


CHAPTER X. 

When Everard woke the next morning he was more than halt in~ 
dined to think that the events of the night had been part and parcel 
of a dream; but an uncomfortable stiffness of the limbs and certain, 
red maiks on his wrists and ankles convinced him that the experience 
which he had passed through had been quite a material one, and he 
rose and set to work to dress himself in a somewhat pensive mood. 
His intelligence, as Souratkin had hinted, was not of a very receptive 
order; he was slow to make up his mind and slow to change it; so 
that he had some difficulty in believing that the Russian was whafe 
he had represented himself to be. The man had spared his life when 
he might have taken it, it was true; but then there would have been 
so much more risk than advantage in murdering him. Was it not 
at least possible that this apparent magnanimity was only a blind to 
conceal some fresh plot? 

However, he put these suspicions away from him when he was out 
of doors in the fresh air and the sunshine, and gave himself up to the 
joy and triumph of success. Come what might, no one should rob 
him of Laura now, he thought, as he paced up and down the beach j 
and presently he saw Laura herself emerge from the hotel and ad’ 
vance toward him. He was at once struck by the brightness of her 
face aud the elasticity of her gait. She came up, holding out both 
her hands, and the first words that she said were—“ 1 am tree!” 

” Have you seen Souratkin?” asked Everard quickly. 

“ 1 saw him last night, you know. 1 told him what 1 promised 
you that I would tell him, and he argued with me for a long time, 
1 thought he seemed less sure of himself than usual; but he said 
nothing about releasing me. It was not anything that lie said; only 
I woke very early this morning—about half-past five—and all of a 
sudden 1 knew— But you will think that it is nonsense.” 

” Ho,” answered Everard; “ go on.” 

** Well, 1 knew that 1 was tree, that is all. I feel as I used to feel 
in the days long ago, before 1 saw him. Somehow, 1 don’t think ho 
will ever get hold of me again. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think he will,” said Everard. And then he gave a brief 
account of what had taken place between him and Souratkin on the 
previous night. 

It is to be feared that the lovers did not trouble their heads very 
much about that unfortunate man and the despair to which he had 
asserted himself to be a prey. Everard and Laura roamed about tAe- 
whole morning, rejoicing in the present, making plans for the future, 
and well pleased to forget the painful past. But when, after having" 
considerably overstayed the luncheon hour, they re-entered the hotel 
together, the waiter, who had for some time been eagerly watching 
in the doorway for their return, beckoned Everard aside and said in. 
an excited whisper:— 

“ Sir, are you aware that that there Roosliian gent is no more?” 

“Good God!” exclaimed Everard; “do you mean that he has 
put an end to himself?” 


THAT TERRIBLE MAH. 


49 


“ Ah, there ’tis, sir. Whether it were cramp or whether it were 
sooicide, who can tell ? iiul my brother-in-law he says this is just 
what he feared; tor them premises must be entered upon, and he 
thought as you, sir, bein' a friend of the deceased, might like to go 
along of him, and p’raps just take a look inside first, so as to see—’* 

“ But how did it happen? How did he meet with his death?” in- 
teriupted Everard. 

“ Oh, he’s drownded, sir. Between five and six o’clock in the 
mornin’ it was. Some fishermen was cruisin’ along past his place, 
and they see him come down to the beach and undress hisself for to 
bathe. 'He swims out some distance, and then all of a sudden he 
throws up his arms and down he goes. 'J’bey’re all ready to swear 
as he never rose again—which is a cur’ous thing.” 

“ Have they found his body?” 

“ No, sir, they ’ave not; but ’tis bound to come ashore afore long', 
they tell me. I’m afraid this will be a sad shock to the young lady, 
sir.’’ 

The sea gave up his body in due time, and the coroner’s jury re¬ 
turned a verdict in accordance with the evidence. Some few people 
who Knew him, and who were in possession ot evidence which was 
not before the jury, may have arrived at a different verdict; but if 
so, they kept it to themselves. Mrs. Patterson, to whom death does 
not by any means imply a severance of the ties which bind the liv¬ 
ing, was long harassed by fears lest her former tormentor should re¬ 
turn in the spirit aud work some dire mischief to her niece or her¬ 
self ; but as he has never done this, she concludes—correctly, let us 
hope—that he is now at peace. 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


By HEINRICH FELBERMANN. 

*- 

1 

CHAPTER 1. 

I can hardly remember my earliest years. 1 recollect living in a 
little country village, at a sort of place like a farm-house. 1 lived 
there with an old iady who was very kind and good to me, and 
who told .me she was my nurse. 1 never asked her why she 
was my nurse, and she never told me, but she was always very 
kind to me and I was very fond of her. It was a pretty farm-house. 
At the back of it were large woods, which ran away up the hills. 1 
used to be told that there were bears in these woods, and 1 certainly 
believed it; lam sure there were wolves there, for 1 used to hear 
them sometimes at night, howling and yelping round the farm after 
we had locked up the pigs and shut the cows into their house. You 
can not mistake the cry of a wolf, it is too terrible, and it is unlike 
anything else. There were large fields full of cherry-trees, and 
there were great gardens full of every kind of flowers. Wolves are 
not troublesome at da 3 T -time, so I was allowed to go about as 1 
pleased, and it was my habit to go about and to look at the flowers 
and listen to the birds, and to look at the great dark, black forest of 
pine trees that stretched away right up the hills, and beyond the 
hills into the mountains, and to wonder whether there were many 
bears in it, and whether there were many wolves, and whether bears 
and wolves would eat little children, and whether they would be so 
unkind as to eat a poor little baby-girl like myself; ahd so I gath¬ 
ered the wild strawberries and 1 plucked the flowers, and 1 used to 
sit and listen to the music of the water as it tumbled down over the 
fall, and 1 heard the birds sing, and 1 fed them, and they got to 
know me, and 1 was as happy as a girl need be. 

A time came at last when there was an end to my happiness. 
My dear old nurse, to w r hom 1 had always looked and who had al¬ 
ways told me everything, told me that 1 was a queen. This was a 
new thing lor me. 1 had heard of queens in fairy stories, I had 
heard Of queens in history. 1 knew that queens wore crowns upon 
their heads with great diamonds and emeralds and rubies in them. 
1 knew that queens could do whatever they wished. 1 knew that 
whenever a queen wanted anything done she could give her com¬ 
mands and they would be obeyed. I knew all this, because 1 had 
read it in fairy stories, and because my dear old nurse had fold it to 
me, and.because 1 had heard the children w T ith whom 1 used to play 
$ay the same kind of thing. But it w T as entirely new to me to be 

( 50 ) * 



THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


51 

told that I was a queen myself. 1 shall never forget it. 1 sat down 
and began to cry. My first idea was that I should not like to be a 
queen at all. 1 had never seen crowns and diamonds, and emeralds 
and rubies, and soldiers, and trumpeters, and the rest. 1 had never 
seen them, and 1 did not want to see them, and 1 did not want to 
have a crown of gold on my head; all 1 wanted was to gather the 
wild strawberries,"and to look at the squirrels as they sat in the pine 
trees or jumped from bough to bough, and to listen to the chaffinches 
and to see the busy little rabbits pop out of one hole into another, 
and to watch the great big hare go slipping by at full trot. 1 knew 
the woods and 1 loved them. What was "the good of telling me l 
was a queen? 1 had no ambition, no fancies,"no desires. I knew 
- nothing except that 1 loved the flowers, and the song ol the birds, 
and the green grass, and the shadow of the trees. What more could 
1 know? I had never been taught anything. 

As 1 grew older, however, my nurse, clear old Sophia, began to 
tell me things that interested me. She told me the terrible story 
of the crushing down of Poland. She told me how it had been cut 
into parts and divided. She told me how brave men had been 
slaughtered by thousands. She told me how women had been flog¬ 
ged in public and in the sight of men. She told me of things that 
made my blood curdle as 1 listened to them. She told me the whole 
dreadful story of a great and powerful army swooping down upon 
a small and defenseless state, and whirling everything before it as 
an outburst of a river does when it overspreads its banks. And 
then as 1 listened to her 1 heard that all tnose who were dearest to 
me had died in this cruel and wicked conflict. 1 heard how my 
mother had been sent to Siberia because she was supposed to favor 
the cause of Polish freedom. 1 heard that they had marched her 
through the frozen snow month after month until she laid herself 
down by the side of the road and died. I heard how the chains upon 
her feet had bitten great holes into her flesh. 1 heard how my father 
had been chained wrist to wrist to a malefactor of the worst stamp, 
a man who had been a common thief and murderer and robber. 
And I then heard that I, Dagomar, was the proper heir, and the true 
representative of Stanislaus LI., the last King of Poland. My old 
nurse told me all this, little by little. Sometimes we were fetching 
the cows back that they might be milked in the morning; some 
times we were under the cherry-trees in the orchard; and sometimes 
we were searching for eggs that the ducks had laid in odd places, 
or hunting tor the nests of the plover. But 1 learned the story, and 
it burned itself into me. The minds of children are wonderfully 
quick and clever. I do not mean that my own mind was clever; I 
wish you to understand that it was quick. While we were stroll¬ 
ing in the fields, or rambling along the lanes, or looking to the prep¬ 
aration of our humble dinner, or sorting the linen, or otherwise busy¬ 
ing ourselves in little cares, my old nurse kept on telling me one 
thing, and one thing only. “ You are Queen of Poland,” she kept 
on saying. “ Y'oti are the great-granddaughter of Stanislaus 11. 
There is no heir except yourself. You are the queen. The king¬ 
dom of Poland belongs to you. Some day we will drive out these 
hateful pigs of Russians.” And then she would go down on her 
knees and would kiss my hands, and take my feet in her own hands 


m 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAll OF POLAND. 


and caress them. ] hardly understood what it all meant, but 1 felt 
certain that she was in earnest. 

Years went on, and my dear nurse grew older. It was a strange 
little world'in which we lived. It was a tiny, little Polish village. 
There were two or three farmers. There were the man and his wife 
that kept the little shop where everybody bought everything. There 
was the priest. There was nobody else. Each owner of a house 
baked his own bread. We bought our meat from one another. VYe 
most of us kept fowls and cows, and a tew pigs. We all had Dlenty 
< i* garden fruit and other such things. Now and again there 

owld be a fair in the nearest town, and we would then go and pur¬ 
chase wonderful things in the way of cloth and printed culieo and 
a paca. We would buy trimmings and tane and flannel. And 
we would then come back and make our dresses for the next year. 
We had really nothing to trouble us. Perhaps the goose would lay 
her eggs so far from the house that we could not watch her, and the 
fox would eat the goslings. Perhaps a tinker would come in the 
night and carry off all our best apricots. Traveling tinkers aie ter¬ 
rible thieves. But all this was of very little matter after all; and so 
.1 lived on, and all that troubled me was that 1 should be the Queen 
of Poland, and yet he living in a little country cottage. Why had 1 
not got a crown? Why had I not got soldiers about me, and bands 
of music? And my old nurse used to shake her head, and to say, 
“ You shall see, my child; you shall see." 

But one day a great trouble came upon me; greater than any of 
these little things. My poor old nurse fell ill. 1 do not know what 
it was. But there was a wise woman in the village, and she went 
to see the wise woman; and she then came back and told me that 
she had to take me a long journey—twenty miles, she said—to Pu- 
lawscki, the nearest town. 1 had often heard of it, and had wanted 
to go there. There was a big fair there every month, and 1 had 
heard about the fair and Iheshows, and the miracle plays, and about 
tire great church and the market place, and the band that used to 
play there in the evening, and the park. So 1 was glad to have to 
go "to town. But 1 was sorry, because my poor old nurse was ill; 
and 1 was a little timid, for she did not tell me what she was going 
to take me to the town for. 

There was a man in the village, Michael Ivanski, who was going 
into the town with his cart, and he took us with him. We -went all 
day through the thick woods on each side of the road—woods where 
my old nurse told me the wolves lived, so that we must finish the 
journey by day. When we got into the town, she took me to a 
large building, which had a great, high wall all around it. I did 
not know what it was, and the great, high wall frightened me. There 
was a small bell in the wall; and, when we rang, the door was 
opened by a lady, whom I knew to be a nun, for I had seen nuns 
before; only I bad never seen a convent. The nun took us into a 
room where there wiis a lady, and my nurse told me to sit down; 
and she then talked to the lady for some little time. I could not 
hear what they said, but when they had finished, the lady kissed 
me, and my nurse said that she was coming back tor me in a tew 
days, and that the lady would take care of uie, and be very kind to 
me. This 1 quite believed, for she looked very kind, and spoke 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 53 

nicely, and so my old nurse went away, and ] commenced my lite 
in the Convent of the Sacred Cross. 

1 was never to see my dear old nurse again. She died soon after 
she went back to the village, as I heard later on, although the kind 
sisters kept the news from me, and used, once a week, to tell me 
she was getting better. 1 think the recording angel will forgive 
them the pious fraud. But the Lady Superior of the convent, Sister 
Vera, was very tender with me, and all the nuns were gentle and 
kind. There were several other girls in the convent, and our life 
was not at all dull. There were the hours to be kept, and there 
was the garden, and there was needle-work, and 1 was taught to 
illuminate and to sing. The good sisters knew very little of the out¬ 
side world, and 1 learned very little; but it was a pleasaut, happy 
life, and two years of it passed almost as if by magic. We went 
out into the town sometimes, or we went to high mass at the church, 
or we visited the sick, or, on very fine days, we went into the coun¬ 
try. It was a quiet, peaceful life; I often afterward wished 1 could 
go back to it. 

Among the girls in the eonvent was one to whom 1 became much 
attached. Iler mime was Katherine Orloff; her father was a Rus¬ 
sian nobleman in great favor at the Court of St. Petersburg, and he 
had, as 1 afterward got to understand, the fullest confidence of the 
emperor. He was Governor-general of Poland at the lime, and he 
lived in the old palace at Warsaw, where the kings of Poland used 
to live, and which my nurse had always told me was my home. 
But then she had also told me never to talk about these things—not 
to auybody. So 1 had never talked about them to Katherine Orloff. 
But the Lady Superior had said things to me once or twice that made 
me think she knew all about me; and when Katherine Orloff was 
going borne, and asked to take me with her for a time. Sister Vera 
told me 1 might go, but also told me that 1 must never say a word 
to anybody of anylliing my nurse had said to me. 1 kept this promise 
for some years, as you will soon see, and I parted with the sisters. 
I’had been allowed a little pocket-money while 1 was in the con¬ 
vent, and 1 had saved it, and 1 bought some small presents for the 
sisters—books, and music, and pictures, and things of that kind; 
and the Lady Superior made me plant a tree in the garden. 


CHAPTER 11. 

We had a long journey to Warsaw. A carriage came to the con¬ 
vent with a maid, and Katherine and 1 were driven a good many 
miles to a station, and 1 then, for the first time in my life, saw a 
railway. It was all new to me and bewildered me. But there was 
nothing new in it to Katherine, who had come all the way from St. 
Petersburg, miles and miles away. 

V hen we got to Warsaw 1 found myself in a house grander than 
anything I had ever even'fead of. 1 need not attempt to desciibe a 
palace; everybody knows what a palace is. This had been the pal¬ 
ace of dear old Poland, and L knew it ought to be mine. This was 
doubly strange. Strange, because l seemed to know the place and 
seemed to feel quite at home i>: 'he great rooms and long corridors, 



54 THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND* 

and upon the huge staircase. Strange, on the other hand, because 
X had never seen anything of the sort before or been accustomed to 
it, audit contrasted so marvelously with the little cottage and with 
the simplyiurnished rooms of the convent. 

There were soldiers about everywhere, and servants in gorgeous 
dress, and every room after sunset was blazing with wax tapers, and 
everywhere there were beautiful and rare and wonderful things— 
things of which I had never before seen the like. Katherine used to 
laugh at me, and call me a baby, because I would stand ever so long 
looking at a great china vase covered all over with little flowers 
molded so wonderfully that one could hardly believe they were 
not real. She would say, “Oh, that is ouly a silly Dresden vase, 
don’t waste time over that.” But the vase was so beautiful that 1 
could have looked at it for hours and should not have thought the 
time wasted. 

Count Orloff was a tall, handsome man, with what 1 now know 
to be a Russian cast of features. He had high cheek-bones, and a 
heavy under-jaw; he was very tall, and lid had an air of authority 
that somehow communicated itself to you without any indication on 
his own part. 1 know now what gives men this bearing. When a 
man has the power of life and death in his hands and can use it at 
his absolute discretion, there is something in his manner that lets 
you know as much. But in these early days 1 hardly understood 
what the power of life and death meant. 1 knew nothing but what 
I had learned at the village and among the good sisters. 

After 1 had been at the palace for a tew days, Count Orlofl: came 
one morning into Katherine’s room. She and I had been feeding 

- her parrot and playing with a white Persian kitten that an officer 

~ in the regiment of Lancers, quarlered at the Warsaw barracks, had 

given her. He came striding into the room in his heavy way, and 
said, “ My dear young lady, 1 wish to speak to you.” 

1 wondered what it was, and listened. 

" Sister Yera, Lady Superior of the Convent of the Sacred Cross* 

- has written to me about you. 1 have a piece of bad news to tell 
you, and a piece of good news—at least, 1 hope good news. The 
good news is thatyou are to live here for some time with Katherine; 
in fact, my child, you may live with Katherine as long as you like* 
if you do not quarrel with her. 1 am sure you will not quarrel with 
me. I should not allow you to do so. You need not trouble about 
paying for anything; you have quite enough money of your own 

- of which 1 have care. It is more than you will want, and you can 
order dresses or anything of that kind for yourself, and 1 can al¬ 
ways let you have money when you want it for your own private 
pocket. Sister Yera says that rt is no good your going back to the 
convent; you have learned all that they can teach you, and she 
thinks it better for you to stop w T ilh Katherine, but she will be in 
Warsaw now and again, and will be sure to see you, or if you wish 
to spend a week or two at the convent you can go back. So much 

. for the good news. The only bad news is fhat your old nurse ” (here 
be took a letter out of his pocket), “ Sophia 1 see her name is, has 
been dead some little time. There are some Ihings ot hers, pictures* 
and some old books, and other such things, which Sister Vera will 
send on to you; meantime, you will continue to live here with Kath- 


THE PRINCESS DAGOAfAK OF FOLAKD. 55 

trine, unless you wish otherwise, but you will not be able to leave 
without permission. ’’ 

I did not know what to say; 1 felt completely crushed at the news 
of the death of my best friend. 1 could only look at the count. 1 
suppose he thought 1 had nothing to say, or that he did not care 
whether 1 had anything to say or not. Anyhow, he turned round 
and strode out of the room with that great, dull, heavy step that 
officers of cavalry always acquire. 

1 was bitterly distressed to hear of the death of my dear old nurse. 
At the same time the news was not altogether unexpected. 1 had 
known, or, at any rate, had guessed when she took me to the con¬ 
vent that her health was failing. 1 was also philosopher enough to 
know that we must all die sooner or later. So, after a short, sharp 
burst of tears, 1 went to seek comfort with Ratheiine. 

Of course Katherine and I had an immense talk. She knew all 
about my past life, and we wondered what it all meant. I was very 
nearly telling her the old secrets that my nurse and Sister Vera 
had told me to keep, but I recollected their warning, and held my 
tongue. It was quite clear that 1 was not poor. That was one com¬ 
fort. And Katherine and 1 were v ery happy talking about the dresses 
1 wtts to have made when the spring came, and about a ball that was 
going to be held at the palace, and a number of other such things 
that only interest young girls. Katherine assured me that 1 had 
better not ask the count anything. Even she was afraid of him, al¬ 
though she was his own daughter. 

He has told you all he means to tell you,” she' said, “ and if 
you were to try ever so much he would not tell you any 7 more. You 
may be quite sure that if he says you are to live here, he means it; 
and if he says you are not to go away without his leave, you had 
better not try to do so. And it will be very nice to stop here with 
me, and we can be very happy together: and so now we will order 
the carriage and send for Pauline, and 1 will get some flowers. I 
want some flowers for the ball.” 

1 had entirely forgotten to tell you that Count OrlofT was a 
widower, so that Katherine was her own mistress. Pauline was 
only 7 Katherine’s maid. We went for our ride, and we bought the 
flowers; and the next two or three days tvere all spent in preparing 
‘ for the balk It -was a great event for me, for you must recollect it 
' was the first ball in my life. 1 had seen them sometimes dancing 
' at the village, and at the fair in the town, but 1 had never danced 
myself, although 1 had been taught to dance at the convent, where, 
as I was not intended for a nun, a knowledge of the steps was con¬ 
sidered a necessary and polite accomplishment. My dress, of 
course, occupied me a great deal; and one day, Count Orloff came 
into the room and gave me a morocco case, telling me that it was 
his present for my first ball. It had a beautiful string of pearls in 
it, and a little pearl brooch ; and 1 was so pleased that 1 could hard¬ 
ly think of anything else tor the rest of the day. Katherine gave 
me a beautiful bracelet, made of small pieces of gold, so linked to¬ 
gether that you could almost have tied a knot iu it. There was a 
tremendous consultation as to the decorations of the rooms, and ever 
so many things. But the day came at last—the first eventful day in 
mj life. 


56 THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 

Need l describe the kind of ball that would be given by the Rus¬ 
sian governor-general in the Warsaw Palace? Need 1 speak of the 
lights, and the music, and the splendid uniforms, and the sort ot 
blaze of magnificence which it is the duty of the governor-general 
to show on such occasions; of the diamonds; of the decorations? I 
was bewildered at first; but the excitement of the dancing gave me 
back my neive again. 1 thoroughly enjoyed it. 

At this time the cotillon had just come into fashion. I was the 
youngest girl in the room, and 1 was known to be the friend of the 
count’s daughter. So as the cotillon went on I had any number of 
partners, and among them were two who afterward played a very- 
marked part in my life. One of these was Count Alexander, Kath¬ 
erine’s brother, who had come all the way from St. Petersburg to 
be present on this very evening. Katherine had told me all about 
him. He was very young (only thirty, she said) and very clever> { 
He was chamberlain of the Czar, and he was the real head of the 
secret police. Whatever the emperor wanted done, he would con¬ 
sult Alexander about it, and whatever Alexander thought -was the 
best course, the emperor would be sure to take. Let me describe 
Alexander, for 1 danced with him twice, and he took me dowrn to 
supper. He was a tall man, like his father, and strongly built. He 
had been in the army, for he was already General Count Alexander 
Orloff; but I expect his command tiad not been for long, for he had 
none of the air of a soldier about him. His features were French 
rather than Russian, and although they were fairly well cut. 1 did 
not like them. His manner was all that could be desired, but 
women are apt to take strong impressions, and 1 took a very strong 
impression as to General Count Alexander Orloff, which I have 
never changed, and which events have since justified. 1 disliked 
him instinctively. He was insincere; so, at least, I determined in 
my own mind. He was cruel; he was utterly unscrupulous: he 
was just fit for the office he held—head of the Russian secret police,, 
and right hand of the greatest despot on all this unhappy earth.. 
Now let me tell you about the other man 1 met—Count Urban. 
He was introduced to me by the governor-general, who told me 
that he was a nephew of the Sister Vera, and that he had heard 
from her. Of course, 1 was glad to meet any relative of dear 
Sister Vera. But 1 was also, to tell the truth, glad to meet Count 
Urban for other reasons. In the first place, he was a young man, 
not so much very older than myself. 1 know now that he was 
only five-and-twenty. In the next place, he was extremely hand¬ 
some—at least, so I thought. Thirdly, he had that indescribable 
way with him which women so like—a way of paying you every 
attention, without in any way suggesting that they are not the 
merest matter of course. But the strangest thing of all was this. 1 
As we were walking round the gallery in the interval of a waltz, he 
said to me— 1 

“ 1 have heard of you. Mademoiselle Dagomar; my aunt has told 
me what you are, and also that it is not matter to be talked about, 

1 belong to no country, 1 am a citizen of the world and a republic^ 
an; but I shall never forget that 1 have had to-night the honor 
of dancing with a queen. Are not these beautiful flowers? '' 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND* 57 

Here lie stopped me before a great malachite vase full of the most 
georgeous liot-liouse plants. There was nobody near us. 

“ 1 should treasure a flower from a queen," he said, very quietly; 

Will you pluck me one?" 

1 plucked one and gave it him. It was some curious kind of 
small lily, with an extreme fragrance, something like that of a 
magnolia. He had a ribbon in his button-hole and he passed the 
flower through it, and said something about its being the decoration 
•of all others which he should ever value and always keep. There 
was another cotillon alter this, and then the ball ended, and 1 slept 
will very late next morning and did not dieam of anything. 1 should 
have had strange dreams if 1 could have foreseen all that was soon 
to happen. 


CHAPTER 111. 

For some few months after the ball 1 still remained in the palace 
at Warsaw, shared the rooms of Katherine, and was treated as if I 
were a member of the family. Count Alexander was also staying 
in the palace and there must have been some hard work on hand, 
for he and his father were always busy together for the greater part 
of the morning, and sometimes late on into the afternoon. Count 
Urban was staying at a large hotel in the very center of the city. He 
was a frequent visitor, and was always treated as a welcome guest. 
The more I saw him the more 1 liked him. For this 1 can give a 
few reasons. In the first place, he was, as 1 have said, not only a 
very hadsome man, but singularly gentle and winning in his manner. 
He "attracted children and dogs, and he could do what he pleased with 
a horse without using spur or whip or bit.- He had not got the 
heavy, brutal hand of the Orlofts. A gentleman rides his horse in 
one fashion. A trooper of dragoons treats his animal very differ¬ 
ently. Any woman can see the difference at once, and i sawdt. 
Count Alexander no doubt had about him all the necessary amount 
of external polish and varnish, lie was a man of courts and salons. 
But under all this lay the Tartar blood—the blood 1 hate—and 1 
knew that it would start in a moment if he were scratched ever so 
slightly. 

1 was by this time just about the age at which girls begin to under¬ 
stand that there is such a thing as love. I had never even guessed of 
such a thing at the village with my old nurse, nor at the conventwliere 
the sisters gave us little light literature indeed, beyond the Lives of 
the Saints,^and Thomas a Kempis, and where we had to learn by 
heart long litanies. 1 do not believe that even Sister Vera knew 
whether the earth was round or flat, or whether England was an island 
er a province in Siberia, or even who the Turks were. But my first 
ball had taught me something, and Count Urban taught me more. 
He never made love to me—in the sense in which girls understand 
making love. But he treated me with a deference that pleased me 
far more than all the courtier’s flatteries of Alexander Orloft. Alex¬ 
ander would compliment me on my toilet, and talk to me about the 
gossip of the day, and send me presents of flowers. Urban only 
asked for one flower, and never asked for another, but 1 knew be 


58 THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 

"had kept the one 1 had given him. "When Urban could find even & 
moment with me alone I knew that he would say something to be 
listened to. It was always something about Poland, or about bis 
aunt, Sister Yera. He never said anything definite, never anything 
which 1 could possibly construe. But what he did say filled me 
with hopes and wishes so large that 1 would lie awake often through 
the whole night trying to puzzle out for my self what they meant or 
what must come of them. Spring came on, and the flowers began 
to bud and the trees to show promise of summer, and the birds to 
build their nests. Katherine and 1 could discard our heavy furs, 
and make little plans with one another for the summer. You can. 
have no idea of the beauty of a Polish spring. People talk of Kent. 
1 have seen Kent. There is nothing in all England to equal a large 
Polish orchard, when the trees are smothered in white blossoms,, 
turning over and deepening down into crimson. 

One day it was announced that Alexander Orloff had been sum’ 
moned to St Petersburg, and the same afternoon his father sent for 
me. The great big man was seated in his own private audience-room 
in an immense chair, and was in his military uniform, having jusS 
returned from parade. He rose and motioned me to his own chair, 
taking another himself: he removed his helmet; his great saber clat- 
tered on the floor as he sat down, I wondered what was coming. 

“ Mademoiselle Dagomar,” he said, “ 1 have a communication to 
make to you, in which your interests are deeply concerned. You 
are young and you have neither relations nor friends. The Lady 
Superior of theconvent where you were educated with my daughter 
Katherine tells me that she is bound to keep your birth a secret, and 
she refuses to disclose your parentage. That matters not, for you 
are evidently of gentle blood, and we of the Greek Church reverence 
secrets which have been committed to persons of holy life. She telte 
me you have a small fortune; and she has intrusted it to my charge 
with the assurance that it is yours, and with the request that I should 
hold it for you as your guardian Beyond this 1 know nothing, nor 
am 1 ever likely to know. But 1 know that Sister Yera is herself of 
gentle blood, and she i3 the aunt of the Count Pi ban whom you have 
met here in the palace. I can believe her word. 

“My son, Count Alexander Orloff, seeks your band. He has 
asked my permission and 1 have given it willingly. His sister, the 
Countess Katherine, is attached to you. They are'botli anxious that 
the union should take place. 1 have every reason to believe that the 
match is a suitable one, and that you will grace the high position to 
which you will be called at St. Petersburg. I will not ask you, 
mademoiselle, to give me an answer at once. You had better consult 
with Katherine, or, if you prefer, 1 will send you to the Sister Yera. 
"When your own mind is made up, 1 will tell Alexander your decis¬ 
ion. He has still fourteen days’ leave of absence from St. Peters¬ 
burg, and there is ample time. Believe me, my dear young: lady, 
that 1 shall welcome you as a daughter, and that 1 already feel for 
you the very warmest regard; and that whatever your decision may 
be, 1 shall always take the sincerest interest in your welfare and 
happiness.” 

This was startling. I was not displeased with the old count, al¬ 
though his manner had been of the most pompously official style* 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


59 


2 am certain that he wished me well. But then I loved 
Urban in my own heart. 1 did not exactly detest Count Alex¬ 
ander, but 1 ceitainly telt a repugnauce toward him. On the 
other hand, there was "a prospect of a tine position and a brilliant 
household. 1 had not lived all these weeits in Count Orloff’s palace 
without knowing the value that lies in the favor of princes, and how 
easy life becomes when power is in your own hands, and your light¬ 
est wish has only to be expressed. And, besides, what did 1 know 
of myself, or of my birth, or of my prospects? How could 1 possi 
bly afford to quarrel with old Count OrlofE, my own guardian, who 
could do as he pleased with me, and who was not a man to be an 
gered? And, besides, 1 really liked the old gentleman, and 1 loved 
Katherine OrlofT; although with regard to Count Alexander it was a 
different thing 

Evidently Count Michael considered the discussion closed, tor he 
rose from his chair and resumed his helmet. I rose at the same iu 
slant, and made the very best and most conciliatory of courtesies, 

“ You are very good and kind to me, count,” 1 said, “ 1 will con¬ 
sider during the whole of to morrow. It 1 can not then make up my 
mind, I will ask you the next day to let me see the Sister Veia. Her 
advice I will promise you to act upon, and as soon as it is given me, 
1 will return. Believe me that I am very grateful to yourself and to 
Katherine, and 1 have a proper sense of the high honor which Count 
Alexander has done me, and of his consideration in communicating 
iiis wishes to me through you, whom 1 have learned to love.” 

1 think this .was a pretty little speech for a gill of my age. Evi¬ 
dently the count thought so, for he offered me his arm, and himself 
escorted me to Katherine’s room. Now, if there was one thing as to 
which 1 had made up my mind, it was that 1 would do nothing 
■whatever, and commit myself to nothing whatever, until 1 had seen 
Sister Vera 

Of course Katherine knew all about it, and was in the highest of 
spirits, and was immensely astonished to find that 1 wanted to see 
Sister Vera. 

" What can Sister Vera know about it, dear?” she said. “ She 
does not know who Alexander is; she has never seen him. lean 
tell you Alexander is young, as you know, and wonderfully clever. 
The emperor has the most perfect confidence in him. He has been 
Hie emperor’s chamberlain for the last four years, and he is the head 
of the secret police. You do not know what an immense amount of 
power he has. In St. Petersburg everybody is afraid of him, and all 
kinds of things are sure to happen to him. He has the ball entirely 
at his feet. 

‘ We pretend that he has been here for a holiday, but it is nothing 
of the kind. 1 do not know what is going on, but 1 am sure there 
is some important matter in hand, or else Alexander would never 
have been so long away from St. Petersburg aud from the emperor, 
and 1 know that all soits of promotion are sure to fall to him. 

“ And it would be so nice, dearest, to have .you really for my sis¬ 
ter, and to be able to stop with you at St. Petersburg. And you do 
not know what a splendid palace Alexander has.” And so she 
chattered on, and 1 let her talk, and paid little attention to what she 
&aid, for my own mind was made up; I would do nothing whatever 


60 THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 

until I Lad seen Sister Vera; and, besides, 1 did not care to listen 
to all her praises of Alexander, tor Alexander bad never won my 
heart. In tact, be repelled me, and 1 mistrusted him, and 1 loved. 
Urban; and 1 could not help thinking in my own heart that the day 
would come when Urban would speak to me, and say what 1 so 
wished to hear horn him. So 1 told Katherine, lovingly, that 1 
•was too bewildered to think of anything'; and that 1 must go back 
to the dear old convent and see Sister Yera, who was in the place 
of my own mother, and that then 1 would make up my mind- And 
1 asked her not to talk to me any more, and 1 kissed her, and we 
caressed one another as girls do, and 1 accomplished my object, 
which was only to make her stop talking, and to have time in which 
to think for myself; and it was now the hour tor our afternoon 
drive. In the evening there was to be a concert at the palace, and I 
knew that Urban would almost certainly be there. 

As 1 expected, 1 met him at the concert, and we got just the 
chance of a few words. 

“ 1 know all about it,” he said. 

“ Have they told you?” I asked. 

“ Oh, no,” he laughed. “ 1 have learned it in my own way. Lit¬ 
tle birds come and bring me all kinds of strange messages. They 
tell me of things at which you would never even guess. They have 
told me that you have made up your mind to go and see the Bister 
Yera. You are quite right, mademoiselle; go and see her. I am 
sure that I know what she will tell you, and 1 am sure what she will 
tell you will be what is best for you. It is, 1 am satisfied, what I 
should tell you myself; and the little birds have already let me know 
what it would be.” 

And here our conversation was interrupted, and I was left to won¬ 
der all night what it was he possibly meant. 

I need hardly add that during the whole of the evening Count 
Alexander paid me the most marked attention. But he said nothing 
—that is to say, nothing of importance. He knew, of course, all 
that had happened, and 1 suppose he wished me to understand that, 
as his proposals had been conveyed to me through his father, through 
his father I was to return my answer. All this puzzled me very- 
much, and all that I could do was to abide still more steadfastly by 
my determination to act implicitly upon Sister Yera’s advice. 

I was not sorry when the concert came to a close; and early the 
next morning 1 saw Count Michael, and asked him to let me go to 
the convent at once, as it would save time. To this he assented. 1 
traveled enpnncesse, with a courier and a maid, and Katherine and 
Count Alexander accompanied me to the station. A carriage had 
been retained for me, and immediately before the train started Count 
Alexander, as he took my hand to bid me farewell, said— 

“ Mademoiselle, I say nothing, but I await your return with im¬ 
patience.” 

So away rolled the train, and I was left to my own meditations. 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


61 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was pleasant to find myself back again in the convent, and to 
see the sisters, and to inspect the tree that 1 had planted in the gar* 
den, and to be shown the new decorations in the chapel, and a new 
window of stained glass that somebody had presented, and to Jearn 
all the little matters that had happened since 1 had left You know 
how women take pleasure in little things, and you can guess what a 
lot of little gossip 1 and the sisters had to exchange. It was another 
matter when 1 found inyseli alone with Sister Vera. 

“ Dagomar,” she said, “ 1 know why you have come, and I un¬ 
derstand all about it, I know that you have come to ask my ad 
vice; and 1 also know, or, at any rate, very strongly suspect/that 
you do not like Count Alexander.” 

1 burst out crying, and Sister Vera waited unt’l my available sup¬ 
ply of tears was exhausted. 

She looked-at me very kindly. She was always kind, even when 
it had been her duty to be angry. 

“ 1 also know,” she continued, “ that you love somebody else.” 

Here, of course, 1 began to cry again. 

“ But you must not allow yourself to love him, my child, although 
he is ver} T good, and very noble, and as clever as he is good. You 
must not allow yourself to think of him. He is not to be married.” 

1 looked at her in astonishment. I thought for the moment that 
she meant that Urban was going to become a monk, and I am bound 
to admit that the idea quite startled me. 

° He is sworn to the cause of Poland, and to you as his queen By 
our old law, a Polish princess can not marry a mere noble That 
alone would be sufficient. But Urban is sworn to the cause of Po- - 
land. It would be wicked of him to dream of taking a wife His 
own life is never safe for a moment. You must respect him, Dago¬ 
mar, as a brave man and a true Pole; but you must not even think 
of loving him, unless it be as a queen loves a loyal subject, or a sis 
ter her brother.” 

There was nothing for me to do except to break out crying again 
Sister Vera, however, soolhed me. I thought it very odd that she 
did not suggest that we should repeat a litany or go througn the ro¬ 
sary, or otherwise invoke the divine aid to guide our counsels. On 
the contrary, there was nothing of the Lady Superior about her. 
She seemed to have become all at opce a woman of the world, and 
she talked in just the same manner and way as the great ladies 
whom I had met at the paiace at Warsaw, 

“You must, marry Count Alexander, my child,” she said, “ 1 
have told you who and what you are, and what 1 have told you is 
true. Like Urban, you have your duty to do. It is a duty you owe 
Poland, and your duty to Poland comes first of afl. What you will 
have to do, you will know when the time comes. Friends will al¬ 
ways be near you, whenever you least tbink it. Friends of Poland 
will keep a constant guard over you. Wherever you may be in the 
world, you will find your subjects, and you will find them loyaL 


62 THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND, 

But, as I have said, j'ou must marry Alexander. Through.liim you 
■will rule Russia, possibly you will even rule the Czar himself. Be 
of good heart, my child, and be sure that from heaven will come the 
strength to enable you to do your duty, and to bear the troubles 
which come upon us everywhere, even in places so peaceful and so 
far cut off from the world as the Convent of the Sacred Cross. I 
shall say no more, child, You must do as I have told you.” 

And she then kissed me on each cheek and gave me her blessing.- 
She also opened a little cabinet and took out of it a small relic, a lit¬ 
tle rosary of olive-wood. She told me the trees from which the beads 
had been cut had grown in Gethsemane; and she blessed it, and I 
put it into my bosom, for it was too small to go round my neck, and 
then she kissed me again, and said, just as if we had been talking of 
nothing at all — 

” JSow, my dear, you must come with me and see the poultry; 
they are going on famously.” 

1 knew after that it would be idle to attempt to extract from her 
another word. Rome had given its judgment, and the case was at 
an end. 

1 saw llie poultry, and 1 shared the frugal evening supper in the 
refectory, and early next morning my courier was ready at the gate 
with my carriage, and 1 took a fond farewell of all the sisters, and 
for the last time in my life my feet crossed the threshold of the Con¬ 
vent ot the Sacred Cross. 

I can hardly tell how 1 felt. 1 can only say just this much: 1 had 
made up my mind all along to do what Sister Yera had told me. 
Only, then, I had expected that Sister Yera would have told me ex¬ 
actly the contrary of what she had. I was in the position ot a gam¬ 
bler who puts his money on the red, and then, to his horror, sees the 
black turn up; so that although my mind was settled, l was by no 
means happy. 1 felt as a mariner must who, in the old days, when 
there was no compass, and before lighthouses had been invented, put 
out upon strange seas which ships had never before crossed. 

But there was one crumb of comfort. Sister Yera was incapable 
of falsehood. She would never have told me a thing was true be¬ 
cause she hoped it to be true, or expected that it might be true. She 
had told me most positively that wherever 1 went 1 should lind 
friends; and friends in whom I could trust with confidence. And 
so 1 felt assured mat whatever might happen, 1 should be safe, and 
Alexander would not be allowed to ill treat me, however bad a hus¬ 
band he might turn out, or however I might get to hate him. 

1 saw also that it would be impossible for me ever to become the 
wife of Urban, and 1 now' understood why it was that he had never 
spoken to me of love. 

On my arrival in Warsaw* 1 did not see Count Michael until din¬ 
ner, w hen he invited me to the seat of honor next his own. 1 guessed 
what he meant by this, and 1 took the seat, and 1 think I got through 
my dinner very bravely. During an interval in the banquet he 
asked, as if it were the simplest question in the world— 

” You have seen the Sister Yera?” 

“ She has told me to do as you wish,” 1 replied, “ and 1 shall 
follow your wishes. You have been very kind to me.” And 
then the music began again, and when it had finished the count 


THE PRIXCE?? DAGOMAR OP POLAND. 


63 

asked me how Sister Vera was looking, and whether the convene 
had changed at all, and how the town looked, and other such 
questions. And after dinner, when the men rejoined us, 1 found 
myself handed over to Alexander, and saw that everybody in the 
room understood by this that the marriage was an arranged affair. 

I need not tell you what Alexander had to say. He^employed 
the usual stock phrases with every word in them carefully meas¬ 
ured. That 13 the way in which diplomatists always talk. 1 myself 
never considered it a pleasant way from the first, and I afterward 
came to hate it even more. 

Nor need 1 tell you how Katherine talked while Pauline was ar¬ 
ranging our hair tor the night, and how she called me sister, and 
how she chatted about Alexander's palace at St. Petersburg, and 
Alexander’s cleverness, and Alexander’s prospects, and Alexander's 
influence with the Czar, and everything else, until 1 hated the very 
sound of Alexander's name, and was grateful to find myself in bed, 
wearied with my journey and with the pompous dinner, and anx¬ 
ious for sleep. 

Only one thing seemed strange to me. I felt certain that, before 
1 told Count Michael my resolution, he had known it. 1 knew also 
that Alexander'had known it, from his manner before 1 had spoken 
to his father Now. my courier and my maid had never set foot in¬ 
side ihe convent, and 1 am certain that none of (he nuns had even 
the faintest idea of what 1 had come for. There is nothing creates 
excitement in a convent more than the contemplated marriage of one 
of the pupils; and Sister Vera never even spoke to either my courier 
or my maid. All of this was very odd, and I fell asleep thinking 
over it. 


CHAPTER V. 

1 A\r not going to describe my marriage to Count Alexander OrlofL 
The preparations were magnificent. The milliners, and the sellers 
of iace, and all other such people had absolute carte blanche. There 
probably had never been so gorgeous a wedding in Warsaw. My 
wedding presents surpassed all of which I had ever dreamed. There 
were tiaras of diamonds, and strings of pearls, and diamond rings, 
and diamond stare, and porcelain of any age and antiquity. There 
was everything for which a bride could wish: and the ceremony it- . 
self was gorgeous. Count Alexander wore his uniform as a colonel 
of some Russian regiment—1 do not know which. Everybody wore [ 
uniform. 1 myself was dressed superbly. Regiments of soldiers 
escorted us \o the Cathedral of Warsaw, and back again. Military 
bands played in eveiy possible place. It was a success, so far as ab¬ 
solute power can make any ceremony a success. 

We left Warsaw for St. Petersburg by a special train, with an es¬ 
cort of lancers and a subordinate escort of the line. 1 do net care 
to describe our journey, or our arrival at Alexander’s palace in St» 
Petersburg. It is easy enough to describe a wedding journey and a 
honeymoon. It is sufficient s say that only one Idea was present to 
my mind. 1 had ceased to be Dagomar Vassulovitch 1 was now 
the Countess Oiloff, and as such 1 was determined to bear myself, 
it was a difficult task to play, and I saw strange trials and troubles 



64 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


before me. Only considei my pei plexilies. Sister Yeia had advised me? 
to marry Count Alexander, Urban, whom 1 loved, and who w r asVera’s 
nephew, had not objected, but had positi vely acquiesced. Count Alex¬ 
ander, in my private judgment, had no real affection for me. Count 
Michael Orloff approved of the marriage, and had been Ibe main 
instrument in bringing it about. 1 knew, from him, that 1 had the 
command of money to a certain amount, but 1 did not know to 
%vhat amount, and I did not know where the money came from, and 
1 did not know anything about it, or indeed anything about all the 
strange events through which 1 had passed so suddenly All I 
rea ly knew was that 1 loved Urban, that 1 absolutely disliked my 
husband, and that there were friends behind me who, in case of 
trouble, would come to my assistance. 

Meantime it was pleasant to be the possessor of diamonds and fine 
dresses, and the mistress of servants, and to know that 1 should in 
alt probability be the queen of society in St. Petersburg. This last 
anticipation was completely fulfilled. Alexander had indeed a 
magnificent palace. It was far finer than that of his father. It was 
close by the JNevskoi Prospect, His retinue was even more than 
abundant; his horses, his liveries, his banquets, his concerts, his 
balls vied with those of grand-dukes of the Imperiafblood. All St 
Petersburg was at his leet. It was known that the Czar himself 
would drive round in the morning and spend two or three hours 
wuth Alexander and smoke with him, and drink champagne with him, 
or that he would send for Alexander to visit him at the Summer Pal¬ 
ace, aud to interchange the same hospitalities. Alexander, I soon, 
found out, virtually ruled all Russia. How he had acquired this 
position, how he came to retain it, and what was the certainty of 
■liis ultimate future, I 6ould not ascertain. What 1 did see, clearly 
and distinctly, was that Alexander commanded Russia, aud that 1, 
who had been taught to regard myself as Queen ot Poland, was in 
reality Empress of Russia, and mistress of the destinies ot the larg¬ 
est empire in the world. 

I was bewildered for a short time, but 1 remembered what Sister 
Vera had said to me, aud what Urban had hinted at. It is true that 
I found no immediate fiiends, but I telt certain that my friends 
were round about me, and I felt certain that in times‘d t danger 1 
should never need help, and I consequently was serene and undis- 
turl>ed. 

I ruled the city of St. Petersburg. Generals and statesmen w r ere 
only too glad to win my favor. The Czai himself made a point of 
being studiously courteous to me No grand duchess in all the em¬ 
pire was as powerful as myself. 1 could easily describe the pomp 
that surrounded me, the manner in which I lived, the way in which 
I ruled St. Petersburg. But you can guess it-all. 1 for my part de¬ 
spise all this kind ot thing, ami I do not care to dwell upon it. All 
that interested me w T as the certainty that a time w r ould come when 
a new destiny would be opened before me, when 1 should he able 
to help the cause of Poland, and perhaps assert my own proper rank 
as queen; and so 1 waited and watched the course ot events. 

Of the course of events I ascertained a irood deal from Alexander. 
In spite of all his reticence he could not help letting me know very 
much more than it was prudent on his part to disclose. I may say 




THE PRINCESS PAGOMAK OF POLAND, 65 

without vanity that my beauty fascinated him. I may say also, 
that he was cold by nature and incapable of genuine love. He con¬ 
sequently never discovered that 1 had no real affection for him. I 
was a dutiful and complaisant wife. He wanted notiling beyond 
this; indeed, he knew nothing beyond it; consequently 1 had no 
difficulties with him. Everything went smoothly, and all 1 had to 
do was to wait for the future. Tliat future came at last. One day 
I heard from Alexander that he had been intrusted with an im¬ 
portant mission to Vienna. The same evening I gave a reception, 
and amongst those who came was Urban. L liad not sent him a 
card of invitation 1 did not even know that he was in St. Peters¬ 
burg. He came with the French Embassador, by whom he was in-, 
troduced. 1 welcomed him cordially. 

“You are going to Vienna, countess,” he said. “ So am I. 
Private business of mv own takes me there. I hope we shall meet.” 

I answered this enigmatic utterance witlf a few conventional 
phrases. Later on in the evening, we met again, and 1 had the 
chance of exchanging a few hurried words He told me that he 
had come suddenly from Paris to St. Petersburg, that thence he 
was going to Vienna; that from Vienna he should proceed to Ber¬ 
lin; aad then from Berlin he should go to London. “We shall 
probably meet very often/ 4 he said; “and 1 hope 1 may take it 
for granted that 1 have the entree of your salons without a special 
invitation,” and then he hurriedly told me some things which let a 
little light on my situation That he was the nephew' of Sister Vera 
1 had known; but 1 had never known that Sister Vera w'as the 
foster-sister of my ow T n mother. Nor did 1 know that my father’s 
property had been secretly conveyed to the Convent of the Sacred 
Cross, to be held as a trust tor myself, and that Sister Vera had re¬ 
ligiously carried that trust out; nor did 1 know that Sisier Vera, 
although herself a sincere enthusiast in the cause of Poland, had 
persuaded the Russian police that she v r as in reality a faithful 
daughter of the Czar ‘The pious falsehood had enabled her to retain 
her "position as Sister Superior, and so to exercise considerable influ¬ 
ence in the cause of Poland. The Russian secret police believed her 
to be their servant, and had every confidence in her. In reality she 
was Polish to the backbone, and she had concealed the real secret of 
my birth from Count Michael. She had told him that I did not know 
the secret of my own birth; and that my little fortune w'as a trust 
of which the convent had charge. She had added that she herself 
did not know exactly who l was, or what l was; that 1 had been 
left at the convent, and that a certain sum of money had been left 
at the same time for my benefit; and that the instructions given to 
herself had been, that 1 was to be brought up in the true faith of the 
Russian Church, that 1 was to be educated as a lady, and that I 
was to marry no one but a Russian of gentle blood, and of a position 
suitable to the fortune which the convent held in trust for me. 

When 1 heard all this from Urban, 1 began to understand things. 
A scene was lifted. 1 now saw how 1 was situated with regard to 
Urban. I saw what Sister Vera had meant, when she told me that 
1 should best serve the cause of Poland by marrying Alexander. I 
saw also how it was that, when 1 had returned from ihe convent to 
Warsaw, Count Michael and Count Alexander had foreseen the con* 

8 


66 THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 

elusion to which 1 had come. Everything was clear to me. 1 re¬ 
membered what Sister Yera had said that Urban would neve? 
marry. 1 remembered also what she had said w T hen she told me to 
marry Alexander, and to ask no questions, and to wait tor advice 
and to believe that 1 should find friends wherever 1 might go 

And now 1 had learned that l was to go to Vienna, thence to Ber¬ 
lin, thence to Paris, and thence to London, and that at each of these 
places I should find friends At each of these places I should meet 
" Urban, It was wonderful 1 was Countess Orloft, wife of the 
« chief of the Russian secret police, and 1 w r as also Dagomar Vassulo- 
vitch, recognized by all true Poles as their rightful queen. And 
behind me was the Polish police, the committee of secrecy, which 

* was always to guard my safety, which w r as always to tell me what 
to do, and which was always to be near me and in readiness. And 
yet 1 knew no more than that Urban and Sister Yera and my dear 

* old nurse were all Poles, and all looked on me as their queen. 

It was in this frame of mind that 1 started tor Vienna. There 
we stayed for three months, i received guests, and gave great en- 
’ tertainments, and figured in Vienna society. Urban was there, too. 
He was stopping at the best hotel in Vienna, and he regularly at- 
tended my receptions, but we never exchanged more than the 
ordinary conversation of society. I wondered that Alexander was 
■* not suspicious. It seemed strange, or ought to have seemed strange, 
to any one that Urban should thus follow me about. But Alexan¬ 
der was apparently quite unconcerned; if anything, he seemed to 
, grant Uiban more of his confidence than he was usually in the habit 
of bestowing upon people. fSo it was no business of mine. 1 knew 
\ that when the time came, and when Urban had anything to say to 
me, he would say it.. 1 knew nothing myself of what was going 
on. Clearly the only course for me was to wait for events, and to 
~ bide my time. That time came even more rapidly than 1 had ex- 

- pected. 

Prom Vienna Alexander was suddenly called on a special mission 
to Berlin. "What that special mission was 1 never exactly under- 

* stood; but all 1 know is, that again at Berlin Urban w r as there, mov¬ 
ing in the best society of the court, and that Alexander welcomed 

* him as he had always hitherto done. People gave Urban credit for 
being a soit of admirable Crichton. He knew every European 

, language; he was a splendid shot; he could ride the most unruly 
horses; he could row, and swim, and dance; he was said to be a 
great mathematician. He was certainly a most perfect musician, 

' and had more than average skill with the pencil. He was a sort 

* of Ulysses. His knowledge of Europe and of European statesmen 

* was profound. This made him a w elcome guest in every salon, and 
nobody seemed to regard him with the least suspicion. 1, of course, 

* knew more. 1 knew, amongst other things, mat Urban was devoted 

- to the cause of the revolutionary party in Poland. I knew that if 
he was pledged to the secret societies of Poland he would be the 

- enemy of every established government in Europe. This much 1 

* liad been able to gather from Alexander. However, what could 1 
do except to wait? When the tempest is in the sky, what do you 
gain by guessing, oi trying to guess, when it is about to burst? 

We left Berlin and proceeded to Paris. This time, again, it was 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


67 

a special mission. What it was about, or in what way it was con^ 
nected with our previous journeys, -1 could not extract from Alex- 
ander. 1 did gather from him, however, that an insurrection was 
imminent in Poland, and that the Nihilists ot Russia and Ihe Com¬ 
munists of Prance, and the Socialists of Germany, and the Irish 
Americans in the United States, and the old Carbonari organized in 
Italy, and the anarchist societies generally throughout the world, 
were all working together to aid the scheme. 1 "was consequently 
able to guess for myself that Alexander had been sent from court to 
court to sound the opinion ot each government, and to ascertain 
how far each would be disposed to enter into a private league against 
Nihilism when coupled with schemes of political revolution. 

So far 1 had got upon the track, and 1 now began to guess why 
Urban was following us about. Had Alexander ever won my 
love, had he even been a kind and a good husband to me, 1 might 
have been of the greatest service to him; 1 could have found out 
anything. And why had he married me? For 1 knew now, well 
enough, that he bad never cared for me. 1 need not go into the 
pitiful little details that necessarily occur when neither husband 
cares tor wife nor wife for husband. But that Alexander was ab¬ 
solutely indifferent to me I was certain; and that he never had cared 
for me I ascertained beyond question. Women can find out these 
things in their own way. Then there was another odd thing. I 
never had a line from Sister Yera, and yet every now and then Urban 
would say to me— 

“ 1 have heard from Sister Yera. She is well, and rejoices to hear 
you are well.” 

And here, again, was another puzzle. 

While we were at Paris several arrests were made of persons sus¬ 
pected to be concerned in Communard plots. 1 used to hear of 
them or read of them in the papers. Somehow or other the accused 
men generally managed to establish their innocence. They were 
always able to explain away the circumstances alleged against them. 
1 asked Urban once whether there was any danger of a Communard 
rising. He laughed, and said he thought there was no danger. 
That was all he said. 

Suddenly one day I learned that Alexander had been appointed 
the Russian Embassador at London. That evening we had a large 
reception, and while Alexander was talking to the German Em¬ 
bassador, Urban came up to me and spoke to me in low tones and 
in Polish. I do not think anybody heard him; if tlieyhsd they 
would probably nave thought that we w r ere talking Russian. Hie 
manner entirely disarmed suspicion. He had a flower in his hand, 
and he pointed to one leaf ot it after another, and he kept on talking 
in ordinary tones, as if he were expatiating to me upon the beauty of 
the flower. There was not an accent of earnestness in his voice. 
What he said, however, was this, as he turned the flower about and 
called my attention to leaf after leaf: 

“ Queen,” he said, ” you are going to England; Sister Yera says 
so. There you will meet a great man. You must win his confi¬ 
dence. lou must find out from him all that Alexander has told him. 
All that you so find out you must let me know. All that you let 
fine know I shall communicate to Sister Yera. You need not be 


68 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


afraid* you know that friends are with you everywhere. I am the 
chief of them, and the most loyal of your subjects.” 

Those of the guests who were around evidently thought that he 
was speaking to me in Russian about the flower, so 1 answered in 
French, and without any trace of hesitation —“ It is a beautiful 
flower, count, and what you have to say about the shape of its 
leaves and their perfect symmetry shows how fond you must be of 
flowers. I was fond of flowers myself once when 1 was. a child in 
Poland, and 1 still preserve my love for them. I wish there were 
more flowers in Russia. Russia is a great country—it is the gieat- 
est country in the world—but a country without flowers is dreary. 
1 love Paris; the flowers in Paris are always beautiful.” Ancfsc 
ended the conversation, and in less than a week Alexander and ~ 
were installed in the Russian Embassy at London. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The Russian Embassy at London is, 1 say it advisedly, the most 
magnificent post to which any diplomatist in Europe can be ap¬ 
pointed. In the first place the allowance from the imperial treasury 
is more than liberal. It is practically inexhaustible. You explain 
that you want secret service money, and you get carte blanche . 
About the money there is no difficulty, but you are judged by re¬ 
sults. You must do the business that Russia has sent you to do. 
More than this, you must do it successfully. It you fail in this you 
are recalled. If you are recalled, you are, so to say, “broken.” 
You will never get another post. No explanation that you may 
offer will be even considered. You are sent to win, and you can 
only justify yourself by winning. All this I had often heard,- and 
had often been told how wicked such a system was. But then all 
systems are wicked more or less, and the Russian Embassador at the 
Court of Eng’and is perhaps the most distinguished personage in 
the whole Cercle Diplomatique. It needs some eourage to trust 
absolutely to yourself for success. But Alexander, to do him jus¬ 
tice, was not devoid of courage of a certain kind, and had entered 
upon his duties as English Embassador to the Court of St. James’s 
with the most absolute indifference. He possibly believed that he 
was far superior to any Russian officer of state against whom he 
might be brought into competition. Anyhow, from the first mo¬ 
ment of our arrival in England down to the time that he left the 
embassy forever, Alexander wits altogether unmoved. Nothing 
seemed to depress, nothing to unduly elevate him. He seemed cer¬ 
tain of success, although 1 could not gather from him what exactly 
was the mission upon which he had been sent, or how long the mis¬ 
sion itself was likely to last. He would tell me lightly that these 
were not things for women; and he would then give me instructions 
as to some ball, or concert, or banquet, and then he would go away 
and leave me to my own meditations. It was clear to me that he did 
not trust me thoroughly. And then of course came back the diffi¬ 
cult question, Why should he have married me it he had no real 
love for me? 

One evening at. one of our receptions a stiange thing happened 


THE PRINCESS DAGOHAR OE POLAND, 


69 

Urban was present. He hud brought with him a small bouquet of 
the same flower as that upon the beauties of which he had dis¬ 
coursed at Paris. As he «ave it to me he said— 

y Countess, these flowers are beautiful, are they not? You once 
said that Russia was sad without flowers. These few blossoms 
came ail the way from Poland.” 

1 carefully kept the blossoms, and when I retired for the night, 1 
found a letter among them written in Polish. It was very br:eR 
but its meaning was clear—” Sister Vera sends kisses. The queen 
must make the friendship of Mr. Grandrock. He knows every¬ 
thing, and will tell everything. He must be persuaded to tell.” 

Alexander noticed the bouquet and laughed at it. He seldom 
laughed, but to-night he was in a good humor. “ I think, Dago- 
mar,” he said, “that you have made a victim of that unlucky 
Urban: he would tell you anything you ask him. Some day, before 
long, perhaps, 1 shall ask you to find out something for me.” The 
guests had all left and Alexander was smoking a big cigar and drink¬ 
ing tea with brandy in it in my boudoir. 

“ What on earth do you mean?” I asked. What can I find out 
from the count that would be of the least use to you or to anybody 
else? You know him better than 1 do. You knew him before we 
were married. What is the good of perplexing me with enigmas? 
Tell me frankly wliat you desire me to do.” He looked about the 
room, and then he came and took a seat near to me, between my¬ 
self and the door. 

“ Dagomar,” he said, “ I have not hitherto told you things, be¬ 
cause 1 have always been able to manage what 1 have wanted with¬ 
out assistance. Matters, however, are now more serious. They 
have indeed assumed an appearance which gives the greatest anxiety 
at Si. Petersburg. I may tell you that at any moment a revolutiora 
is likely to break out in Polaud. We shall be able to crush it, but 
we wish to forestall it. Now, I have every reason to believe that 
Count Urban knows all about the matter. I believe he has been 
following us about as he has, to watch my movements, to report, 
upon them, and generally to pick up wliat he can. He is a foolish, 
fellow to think that he is any match for myself and for those who 
work under me. I have noticed that he has a sort of attachment to 
yourself; he hangs about you as a spaniel might. 1 have ascer¬ 
tained that he is a nephew of Sister Vera, with whom you were- 
brought up. He is a silly, vain young fellow, and very susceptible 
to flattery, You must encourage him, and you must find out what 
he really wants. 1 doubt if he lias the confidence of the revolution¬ 
ary party; they would never trust such a light-headed bon enfant of 
the salons. But he may know a little, and whatever that little is, 
you must extract it from him.” 

1 began to see light at last. 

” You wish me, then, to play the part of a spy?” 1 asked; “ to 
extract secrets, if there are any, from this foolish young man. 
Urban, and then to betray his confidence to j'ou?” 

“ Exactly so. You know, of course, that 1 am the real chief of 
the Russian secret police. 1 know also something about yourself. 
It is considered by some of the Polish National Party that you 
are in the direct succession to the throne of Poland. You are noS 


70 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND 


likely to have heard ot this, but 1 have, heard as much from Sister 
Vera, who is a spy in the Russian service, and who had somehow 
managed to pick up the fact that the executive council of the inner 
•circle of the insurrection consider you to have some sort of absurd 
Aitle to the crown ot Poland. It was thought desirable, accordingly, 
that you should be discredited by being associated with the Rus¬ 
sian Government, and in consequence you were invited to my fa¬ 
ther’s palace. This was done with the simple object of removing 
you from any intercourse tfith conspirators, who might otherwise 
have involved you in tbeii own machinations, and in the inevitable 
consequences of all such plots when they are directed against the 
overwhelming power of Russia. It was intended that you should 
stay tor some time at the palace of Warsaw, and that then a Russian 
husband should be found for you. When, however, 1 saw you I 
conceived that admiration for you which 1 expressed through my 
father, and i determined to marry you myself. You have been a 
dutiful wife. You have supported the dignity of youi position, and 
it now only remains for you to assist me in my diilicult duties, and 
to show your loydlty to the Czar, as all his subjects do, and have to 
do.” 

Now that frank communication perplexed me not a little. In the 
first place, I did not know whether to believe it or not. Either 
Alexander was lying when he spoke of Sister Vera as a Russian spy, 
or else Sister Vera had been lying in all that she had ever said to 
me. My own instincts told me to believe in Sister Vera. Any¬ 
how, the one thing tor me to do was to gain a little time, and to ask 
Urban what it all meant. This I should now have an opportunity of 
doing. Accordingly, 1 answered Alexander as calmly as if he had 
asked me to make out a list of guests for the next dinner party. 

“ I shall talk a good deal to Count Urban,” 1 said. “ He is a 
•clever man, and it will take some trouble to extract things from 
him. Besides, 1 shall have to flatter his vanity, and to pay him 
Jittle attentions. ” Here 1 laughed my prettiest laugh. “You must, 
not be jealous, Alexander, if you see me talking to him a little more 
than to other people.” 

How brutal the Russians always are! “ You may tala as much 
as you like to the fellow,” he replied, “ so long as you get out of 
him what I want. You have got the tact. You only want a little 
practice. It is my business, and it has got to be your business, and 
the sooner you begin to practice it the better. You have a recep¬ 
tion to-morrow. Bend a private note ot your own to ask Urban to 
come. Do what you can with him. 1 shall take care not to disturb 
you.” AVith this he lit another of his huge cigars, and strolled 
away to his own apartments. I have often said that I disliked him 
1 now discovei ed that I positively loathed him. 

CHAPTER VII. 

My receplion occurred next night; I need not describe it. It was 
very much like any other reception. But presently Urban made his 
.appearance, and 1 managed to separate myself fiom my circle. 

“Count,” I said, “ you must call on me to-morrow morning, 
and 1 shall be at home at one o’clock. Be sure that you come.” 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND, 


71 

“ Certainly, countess,” he answered, “ but have you forgotten 
that among the list of your guests to-night is Air. Giandrock? lie 
will be here as 1 know of, in about ten minutes. You must do all 
you can to piopitiate him. He is a very poweiful man. lie sways 
the cabinet. His sympathies are entirely Russian, but he would be- 
_ of immense aid to any country, were he only to consider it op¬ 
pressed. You will not like him, but it will be your duty to your 
own country; not the country that owns you, madam, but the 
j country that you own, to do what you can with him.” And with 
* this lie bowed, and left me. 

I was certainly impressed with Mr. Grandrock. lie was long 

- past middle life, but he was still tall and erect. His dress was old- 
fashioned; he had evidently not changed its style for many vears, 
and had taken no trouble to follow such minute details as are in¬ 
volved in the precise cut of a coat, or the shape of a collar. Ilis 

_ features must once have been handsome, but there was something 
forbidding about them. I had never seen an English Cabinet Min¬ 
ister so Puritan in his whole bearing and appearance. This man 
_ ought to have been an adherent of Cromwell, or a follower of John 
Knox. He evidently did not feel at home in a company such as 
that which he had joined; indeed, he could hardly conceal the fact 
that he was bored by tbe glitter of the lights and the babel of the 
conversation, and that he'wanted to get away. 1 managed, however, 
to win from him more than a usual share of condescension. 1 had 

- made inquiries, and had ascertained that he was a more than usually 
devout Christian, with strong leanings toward the Catholic Church. 
1 had learned also that he was a very eminent scholar, and had writ¬ 
ten books about the Greek and Roman writers, and, above all, that 
he had translated hymns out of almost every dialect into almost 

- every other. So I asked him if he knew any of the old hymns 
that are sung in the parish churches in Poland, and I promised him 
some Polish hymn-books, and 1 told him that he would find Polish 
very much like most of the other Sclavonic languages, and that he 
would understand the hymns at once; and I also said that I would 
get him any number of other devotional works—1 really forgot 
which, and I talked to him about my life at the convent, and I 
spoke to him of Sister Vera; and, in answer to him, 1 said I did 
not like being the wife of an embassador. 1 confessed, that there 

- was too much pomp and splendor about it. 

And 1 described a little English parish which 1 had vis¬ 
ited, and 1 declared that there was nothing 1 should liKo 
so much as to he the wife of an English clergyman, especially 
if he were a learned man who had distinguished himself 
at the university. 1 should like to teach the children in the school, 

1 said, and to look after the poor. And then 1 laughed, and vowed 
1 had diamonds enough of my own to build schools and almshouses 
for the largest parish in England. The old gentleman was quite 
delighted. He let me talk on; he expressed his approval of my 
sentiments in a grave and measured manner, and in a most melodi¬ 
ous voice. And thus it c^iie about that on our first introduction 
Mr Grandrock and 1 parted 1 the very best of friends. 

The next day Urban called. I bad told Alexander lie was com¬ 
ing, and Alexander bad treated the matter indifferently, and said 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND, 


72 

that he should be too busy to inteirupt our conversation. So when 
Urban came 1 knew we should not be interrupted. After we had 
talked a bit about the weather and the latest variety oi orchid, and 
the last great action for libel, and the new opera in Paris, and other 
such things, we began to talk in earnest. 

“ You know, madam,’' he said, ” what Sister Vera has told you? 
You know, also, what 1 have told you from time to time? You 
know, too, that within the last tew days Count Alexander has said 
certain tilings to you, and you, madam, are puzzled what to believe.” 

1 nodded Vny head, tor what could I say, or what different answer 
cou'd I jrive? 

| Sister Vera,” he went on, ” is no Russian spy; she is as loyal a 
subject as I am; she pretends to be a spy, and she serves the cause 
by doihg so. You have been told to turn spy, and to find out things 
Irom me. Do so, madam; 1 will tell you exactly as much as 1 like, 
and quite enough to confuse the secret police of the brutal despotism 
that has your country under its heel, and that would crush out of 
Poland all its national life and all its great instincts. I belong to 
the Insurrectionary party; 1 have belonged to it all mj 1 - life. Your 
husband. Count Alexander, is aware of the tact; but he thinks 1 am 

* a fool, and am not likely to be mischievous. Besides, my aunt, my 
dear good aunt. Sister Vera, keeps on sending him intelligence 
which thoroughly misleads him, and still more thoroughly satisfies 
him that 1 am a fool. Now, you must do tire same. 1, madam, 
will tell you everything; 1 will give you information as to a terrible 
conspirator, who is expected to arrive at Liverpool from the United 
States. On the contrary, he will arrive from the Hague. All the 
activity ot the Russian police will be spent in watching arrivals in. 
Liverpool, and in sending expensive cable messages to New Y'oik.” 

At last life began to have au interest for me; but how was 1 to be 
sure that Urban could be trusted? It is true that my husband had 
been more than sufficiently frank, and tar more than sufficiently 
brutal ; but which of the two men could I believe? I cannot tell 
whether he knew that I was hesitating, but he went on— 

” Count Alexander is here in London tor a special purpose. Mr. 
Grandroek has strange Russian proclivities. It is suspected that the 
headquarters ot the Insurrectionary movement which is now going 
■on Simultaneously at Warsaw, in Moscow, and in St. Petersburg, 
are actually concentrated in London. The appointment of your 
husband as embassador iu London is merely a pretext to allow him 
to be on the spot. Mr. Grandroek is giving him the whole assist¬ 
ance ot the forces at the disposal of the English Government, and 
they are very large. Y r ou must find out from Mr. Grandroek not 
only what he has to tell Count Alexander, but also, which is more 
important, what Count Alexander has to tell him. I fear, madam, 
that you do not exactly trust me, nor do I know how I can satisty 
you; but if you trust Sister Vera you must trust me, tor you know 
what she has told you of me. It you do not trust Sister Vera then 
there is no one tor you to trust except Count Alexander, who is the 
hereditary enemy of Poland. But 1 know that you trusted your old 
nurse, and you know that your old nursf trusted Sister Vera, and 
remember that Sophia knew the whole secret of your birth. Recol¬ 
lect that Sister Vera was your own mother’s foster-sister. It you 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 7$ 

are in doubt, write to Sister Vera; it will not be many days’ post. 
But it j'ou think the uiatter over I imagine )*ou will not doubt.” 

“ 1 shall think the matter over, count,” I answered, ” and I do 
not think 1 shall doubt. Have you seen the new gold fish in the 
malachite fountain in the central hall?” 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

It was not many days after this that I met Mr. Grandrock. Now, 
_ you must recollect that 1 am not a tiained diplomatist. 1 learned 
very little indeed Irom my nurse, or from the good sisters at the 
Convent of the Sacred Cross. 1 picked up a little more while 1 was 
at Warsaw, and 1 had picked up a great deal more in Vienna and 
Berlin, and in Paris most ot all. In Paris—where, I think, as far 
' as 1 could make out, everybody tells lies about everything—you 
* may take it for granted that a Parisian is not telling you the truth. 

The difficulty is to gather from his particular lie what the truth 
' may really be. This is best done by collecting the utterances of 
_ several eminent liars with regard to the same subject, and then com¬ 
paring them with one another. To be successful with the Parisians 
you must youiself alwaj^s speak the exact truth, or, at any rate, as 
_ much of it as suits your purpose. You may be quite sure that they 

- will not believe you. This w r as Bismarck’s plan, and it succeeded. 

Now, in England, it is best to tell a considerable amount of the 
truth, but Englishmen are very stupid, and they will believe any lie 
whatever, if it pleases them to hear you tell it. If a girl of eighteen, 

- who cannot possibly understand such things, tells an old professor 

- that she believes in the Darwinian theory he is pleased at the news, 
and he believes her at once, although he ought to know that she is 
too young to have had the time to sludy the thing, and too frivolous 
to have ever interested herselt in it. The next minute she will De 
telling some Low Church bishop that she is devotedly attached to 
teetotalism and the Gospel according to the Evangelical party. He 
will also believe her, because it makes him happy to do so. So if I 
am to conciliate Mr. Grandrock I must believe in everything that is 
near and dear to his heart. I think I succeed fairly well on the 
first occasion. 1 make some inquiries, and find that he is an ardent 
admirer of St. Augustine, and is actually engaged upon a transla¬ 
tion of that good man’s works. So 1 ask a clever young English¬ 
man from Oxford to find me a book in which I can read all about 
St. Augustine, and I adopt the same plan with regard to one or two 
other subjects to wffiich Mr. Grandrock is supposed or known to 
attach himself. 

The method succeeds admirably. In loss than a month Mr. 
Grandrock is my abject slave. Be considers me the most marvel¬ 
ous woman he has ever met. He talks about me to everybody. 
He sends me a lot of books that he has written, and through which 
1 have to look, and he introduces me to Mrs. Graudrock’s especial 
notice. Mrs. Grandrock is an old woman who, like her husband. 
Was once, I should think, handsome. At present she is entirely oc¬ 
cupied with soup kitchens, and consumptive homes, and a society, 
of which she is lady patroness, for providing poor curates with 



‘H THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 

flannel cliest-protectors. But I cultivate her carefully all the same. 
It checks any jealousy on her part, and she has reason tor jealousy 
more than sufficient. For Grandrock, after a time, becomes abso¬ 
lutely infatuated. Need I say moie? 

1 ought to have stated that, soon after this piece of secret police 
work began, 1 received a letter from Sister Vera. It was like a 
letter in cipher, only more clever I could have left it on my table 
without danger, in fact, that is just what 1 did. She talked about 
London, begged me to write when 1 could find time, asked me if I 
had made the acquaintance of that remarkable man Mr. Grandrock, 
said that I should find him immensely learned, and a devoted be¬ 
liever in the holy mission of Russia, and so on. She then inquired, 
ns if it were a matter of the slightest moment, whether L had seen 
anything of Urban, and what he was doing. She had heard that 
he meant to take a long yachting cruise in the Eastern seas, and she 
fancied he had started, as he had not written for a long time. She 
added with a devout prayer that in whatever station 1 found myself, 
1 should put my natural abilities, together with my high position, 
to the best possible purpose, and that 1 should be loyal to my 
country and faithful to all that I had been taught in the Convent of 
the Sacred Cross. 1 had no idea that Sister Vera was so clever, and 
my amusement, was increased when I met Urban the same evening. 

“I have just returned from Sister Vera,” he said. 

“ And so have 1,” 1 answered. “ It was a very long letter, and 
very pleasant. ” 

” Mine was short enough,” said he. “ She only asked me how I 
was, and whether 1 had seen you.” 

And 1 looked at him in his eyes, and he looked in mine, and I 
saw that he knew that I fully believed him. 

Poor old Grandrock before long told me everything. There was, 
it seems, a universal Nihilist outbreak, which had long been 
planned, and with regard to which the greatest anxiety existed. 
.Secret committees were known to be at work in Odessa, Moscow, 
St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna, and even Madrid. In the smaller 
towns also the plot was being diligently carried on. All that Urban 
had told me was perfectly true. Alexander’s mission w T as to 
thoroughly ascertain the opinions of the various courts to which he 
had been accredited. His mission to England had been the most 
delicate of all. For while on the one hand Grandrock reverenced 
the destinies of holy Russia, he had, on the other, a sincere sym- 
pathy with all oppressed nationalities, and was thus dragged in 
sunder between two opinions. The third course open to him, which 
he took, was to console himself with the reflection that Nihilism is 
irreligious—that it has no real connection with the best interests of 
oppressed nationalities, and that it ought accordingly to be sup¬ 
pressed. So he had promised Alexander that the English Govern¬ 
ment would do all in its power to help the Russian police. And 
the purposes of Alexander’s mission had so far been accomplished. 


CHAPTER IX. 

1 often wondered that Alexander had never spoken to me about 
£he obvious closeness of my intimacy with Mr. Grandrock. It is 


THE .PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 75 

true that Grandrock was old enough to he my grandfather; but, on 
the other hand, his attentions to me had become a topic of general 
conversation, if not, indeed, of something more. However, Alex* 
ander and 1 had never since our maniage exchanged confidences on 
any subject whatever, so I was not very astonished at his silence. 
1 knew he did not really care for me, and that was enough. 

One day he enlightened me on all these points. He came into my 
room, sat down, and lighted a very small cigarette. 

“ Dagomar,” lie said; “I am very pleased with vou. Sister 
Vera, in whom my father and 1 have always had the highest con¬ 
fidence, and whom we know we can trust, assured us that you had 
great natural abilities, and that you would be able to render im¬ 
portant service to his Majesty the Czar, and tor that and other- 
reasons you were invited to the palace. That 1 admired you, 1 in¬ 
formed you through my father. That admiration has greatly in¬ 
creased. Nothing has astonished me more than the manner in 
which you have managed Grandrock. 1 believe that 1 know as 
much as 1 want, so 1 have not spoken to you until now. 1 also 
quite understood that you were planning a surprise for me. It was 
no surprise, for 1 saw what was going on; but 1 am not the less 
pleased. Tell me now w T hat you have found out.” 

I told him almost everything, suppressing very little, and ho 
listened carefully to what I had to say. I felt that I was playing a 
most difficult game; more than difficult, it was dangerous; tor, 
although in England, I was yet in the Russian Embassy, and con¬ 
sequently upon Russian soil, and subject to Russian law, or, rather, 
to Russian despotism. 

“ What you have told me,” he said, ** is absolutely accurate so 
farasitgoes. Do you believe the old idiot was telling you the 
truth?” 

“ I am sure of it,” I answered. “"Sou forget that he sympa¬ 
thizes with Poland to a very great extent. 1 doubt if he said as 
much to you with that frankness he showed toward me.” 

u You are right, Dagomar,” he replied; “and you have distin¬ 
guished yourself.” And with that he left me. 

It now became my business to extract as much as I possibty could 
from Alexander. 1 had w r on his confidence, and 1 succeeded. 
There were several men and even women in London society who 
made no secret of their strong republican sympathies. They were 
the people who had entertained Mazzini and Saffi, and who were on 
terms of intimacy with Gambetta and Louis Blanc. They were 
what I may call, writing now when all is over, the Grote-Mi 11- 
Stansfeld-Dilke-Holyoake coterie. 1 was to make myself as agree¬ 
able to them as 1 could; 1 was to show the most extreme sympathy 
-with the cause of liberty generally; 1 was to regret that 1 was a 
Russian, without going too far in that particular direction. 1 might 
denounce the late Emperor of the French as much as I pleased. 1 
was to profess a profound admiration for the glorious instilutions of 
England, and 1 was to find out from them as much as 1 possibly 
could. Their real opinions would be useful, but it would be better 
still if I could get at any actual facts. Now, to carry this purpose 
out, I, of course, required instructions; aud thus it came about that 
Alexander had to tell me, under pledges of the most inviolable 


76 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OE POLAND. 

secrecy, exactly how much the Russian Government knew; exactly 
how much it suspected, and what.were the precise (acts it wished to 
ascertain. All this, of course, occupied more than one interview. 
1 used now to see Alexander every day, and his confidence in me 
increased marvt louslv. 

All that I did find out, and how 1 found it out, and from whom, 
and where, and when, would be a long story I told Alexander 
from time to time enough to keep him satisfied.. The Grote clique 
had really nothing to communicate; they were vague enthusiasts, 
with no very practical purpose. Urban, however, gave me now 
and again, for Alexander’s especial benefit, a lew items of actual 
intelligence. just true enough to seem important and prove exciting, 
but with quite enough falsehood in them to mislead, and to do more 
harm than good. I need hardly add that 1 carefully repeated to 
Urban every single thing that Alexander told me, and that the 
former knew fully as much as 1 knew myself. Also 1 felt sure that 
I was rendering Poland service, for 1 used every now and then to 
get a long letter from Sister Vera about nothing in particular, and 
this showed me that she was pleased. 

One day 1 received a piece of news from Alexander so important 
that 1 must give it in detail He told me (this was in the month of 
December, but there had'been a special autumn session of Parlia¬ 
ment, so that we were in London at the embassy as usual) that the 
insurrection had been planned to break out in the September next, 
(1 could have told him that myself,.) He told me also that within 
six weeks there would be a house-to-house search in all the towns 
where the committees were suspected to be at w r ork, that the garri¬ 
sons would be suddenly doubled, and that the most stringent regula¬ 
tions as to passports along all the lines and at pll the frontier towns 
w T ould be put in force at a moment’s notice. The great Powers who 
were threatened had determined to effect a simultaneous surprise, 
and, if possible, to catch all the conspirators in a trap—much as 
Joshua caught liis enemies in the cave by suddenly rolling a great 
stone upon its mouth, or as fish are caught at a single throw of the 
cast-net. 

“ This,” said he, “ Dagomar, is the most important secret that 1 
have yet confided to you. We now 7 fully well know all their plans; 
but we wish to ascertain if they are confident of success If so, 
they can have no notion of the thundeibolt that is to fall on them. 
If they are the least uneasy we must precipitate our plans. Set to 
w 7 ork in your own way, but with even more than your usual cau¬ 
tion ” 

1 had soon some very valuable information indeed to afford him. 
Grandrock had told me, and the chief of the London police had 
confirmed him, that in Loudon, at any rate, nobody suspected any¬ 
thing, and that the whole thing was believed still to be a profound 
secret. The few known Nihilists in London w'ere going about as 
usual, and there was no symptom of any movement or excitement. 
Ail this, of course, Alexander knew himself, but 1 was also able to 
tell him, at which he was very pleased, that Urban was in happy 
ignorance—total and complete ignorance—that the Powers intended 
to take any steps whatever, and the conspirators, so far as he Knew 
anything of their movements, seemed to be in as absolute a fool's 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. $7 

paradise as himself, I was certain, 1 added, that Urban knew noth¬ 
ing whatever. 

And this was strictly true, for Urban had know r n no more of the 
thing, until he learned it from me, than 1 had known until 1 had 
learned it from Alexander. 

Alexander was again extremely pleased. Urban left London to 
visit some friends at Liverpool About a fortnight later 1 got an¬ 
other very long letter from Sister Yera, telling me all about the con¬ 
vent and the health of the good sisters. Sister Agatha’s eyesight 
was a little worse, and Sister Maria had been attacked with rheu¬ 
matism. ]t was a very cold winter, and they all sent their best love. 


CHAPTER X. 

About a fortnight after the letter from Sister Yera, Alexander 
came to me one morning looking very serious. 

“Dagomar,” he said, “1 am summoned to St. Petersburg at 
once*, and 1 am not told why. 1 must travel post haste and without 
stopping. It is impossible that 1 should take you with me on so 
short a notice. Besides, you will be of use here. Xou have the 
cipher, and can wire me anything of importance.” 

He bade me a brief adieu, and within an hour he was on his way 
to Russia. 

About a fortnight later strange rumors began to appear in the 
papers. Telegrams from correspondents, usually well informed, 
announced that a conspiracy of alarming extent had been tor some 
time past going on in the various principal cities of the three great 
empires, and that a general and simultaneous uprising had been 
concerted to take place in the autumn. The Russian police, it was 
said, had been aw r are of the fact, and had communicated with the 
police of Berlin andYieuna; and it had been arranged that on a 
given day in February a sudden raid should be made, all suspected 
persons promptly arrested, and all places of suspicious resort 
thoroughly searched. For reasons of state this raid had been made 
earlier thah was at first proposed, and had signally failed. No 
seditious documents or papers, or explosives, or other treasonable 
materials had been found, and the persons believed to be principally 
implicated had all disappeared. These announcements were vague, 
hut they all sufficiently agreed with one another, and 1 need not say 
that they in no way astonished me. 

Yhile conflicting rumors were thus in circulation as to the nature 
of the conspiracy and its extent, 1 suddenly received this telegram 
from 8t. Petersburg— 

“Expect unfortunate news. Count Alexander seriously ill. 
Await further intelligence.” 

The papers of next morning gave the “ unfortunate news ” in 
detail. As Alexander was walking along Nevskoi Prospect with the 
principal officer of the secret police, he had been shot dead on the 
spot by a man who apparently was only an innocent passer by. 
The assassin was at once seized. He refused to give any account 
of himself, and nothing was found upon him that gave any clew to 



THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND. 


78 


his identity. It was believed, however, that he was a Pole from 
Warsaw, and so knew Count Alexander by sight. 

About noon came a telegram from Count Michael, expressing the 
deepest sympathy, and adding that as he had been summoned to St. 
Petersburg, and could not expect me to proceed there at once after 
so terrible a shock, he had sent Katherine to England to comfort 
^me. and that she was already on her way. 

It was an eventful day. Before many hours were over 1 received, 
a letter wiitten in an unknown hand, to say that Urban would call to 

- offer his condolences, and that, in spite ot all etiquette, I must see 
him. 

1 saved etiquette by seeing him in the presence of my English 
-maid, who did not understand a word of French, and could never 
have gathered the tenor of our conversation from our countenances. 

“You must leave England to-night,” he said. “Places were 
secured more than a week ago in the Cunarder that leaves Liverpool 
to-morrow. If you ever return to Russia or to Poland, your life 
""will be forfeited, or Siberia, at least, is certain for you. "Even if 
they know nothing, they may perhaps suspect, and suspicion under 
a despotism is equivalent to proof. How to escape 1 leave to you, 
but escape you must; and remember what Sister Vera told you, 
that wherever you might be you would have friends.” 

~ lie left, and 1 found within an hour that Sister Vera’s promises 
had not been made in vain. My Russian lady's-maid, who had. 
been all her life a servant in the Orloff family, and was the daughter 
_ ot a peasant on the £)iloff estates, effected my escape, and accom¬ 
panied me herself on the journey. To that moment 1 could have 
sworn that the girl had been a thorough Russian, and one of the 
most loyal subjects ot the uzar. 

^ liVe escaped from the embassy in the simple way in which such 
matters are usually arranged. 1 passed out unobserved in the dis¬ 
guise of a domestic servaut, and it was not until long after 1 had 
reached New York that it was discovered by what route 1 had fled, 
or in what manner. 

1 have written this trom the United States, where 1 am absolutely 
sate, and where, as Sister Vera promised, 1 have found friends. 1 am 
known to be guiltless of any part in Alexander’s death. It has 
proved to be an isolated act of vengeance. But 1 have no intention 
^ of revisiting either Russia or Poland; and I agree with Urban that 
the cause of freedom in those unhappy countries is still hopeless, 

. and that under a republic we breathe a freer and purer air. 

i 

ENVOI. 

The Countess Dagomar Orloff, whose story has been given above, 
did not remain long in the United States. She soon recognized the 
fact that she was personally safe, and she was to be seen at every 
~ court and spa, at Vienna and at Wiesbaden, at Berlin and at Kis- 
singen, at Florence and at Monte Carlo. Perhaps prudence or per¬ 
haps old association did not allow her to visit St. Petersburg itself, 

- or to explore the curiosities of the ancient city of Moscow. 

Some few years after the events which she has recorded, her name 
became again famous through Europe. She married a grand-duke. 


THE PRINCESS DAGOMAR OF POLAND, 


79 


■ore of those many small potentates -whose principality had been 
absorbed into the German Empire, after the teirible struggle that 
decided the ultimate destinies of France and Germany. 

flis highness was a widower, and his first wife had been an En¬ 
glish princess, so that the marriage created not a little scandal at the 
time. It is said that a widower who had known what it was to en¬ 
joy the love of an English princess ought to be ashamed of himself 
for marrying again. It was also said that a grand-duke forgot him¬ 
self and his orrler when he married a person who really, as far aa 
the outside world knew, was no more than a commoner. 

Ilis highness, however, serenely disregarded all these criticisms, 
and treated the current opinion of European courts as indifferently 
a3 it it had been that of his most illustrious and august mother-in- 
law. He married the Countess Dagomar Orloff, who at this mo¬ 
ment graces his palace. And there is every reason to believe that 
dhe marriage has been a most flippy one. 




THE DEVIL’S WARD 


By WILLIAM MACKAY. 


• CHAPTER 1. 

Sweete Temmes, runne softly till I end my song! 

Spenser. 

“ X goe6 * one,’ ” said Rainbow, with the dejected air of a man 
who holds a hopeless hand, tie further intimated the extent to 
which he proposed to speculate by bolding up a single finger. 

Bounder met the half hearted challenge. He held up a pair of 
digits, and in more hopeful but by no means exultant tones ob¬ 
served— 

“ I’ll ’ave a try at ‘ two,’ an’ chance it.” 

All eyes now turned on Jo. He was a middle-aged man, noted 
ior his great caution and sagacity. With one eye closed he re¬ 
garded the cards in his hand critically the while he pursed his mouth 
and knoited the wrinkles on his brow—laboring in thought. The 
black streaks acquired in the engine-room detracted nothing from 
his expression of profound anxiety. At length, when the impatience 
of the other players had evinced itself in a succession of very full- 
flavored oaths, he declared his intentions without resenting or emu¬ 
lating the reckless blasphemies of his companions. 

He placed his cards faces downward on the table and held up three 
fingers. 

“Pass!” exclaimed the Devil sententiously; ”1 never ’as no 
bloomin’ luck.” 

The Devil was a youth of fifteen summers, but he spoke with the 
resigned air of a victim of mature years against w T hom the Fates 
had combined in a bygone time, pursuing him thereafter with re¬ 
lentless consistency. This conspiracy on the party of destiny, how¬ 
ever, did not prevent his playing an ace on Jo’s king—a brilliant 
stroke oi skill and genius which caused the overthrow of the elder 
and superior player. 

This singular game of Nap was prosecuted in the fore-cabin of 
the tug ” Willy.” The gamblers belonged to that interesting class 
vaguely known as bargees, though but one of them had any real 
claim to the title. Bounder was a mere afternoon caller from the 
barge in tow. The other three formed the crew of the tug. 

It is a curious fact, known perhaps only to themselves and the 
patient amateurs who collect census papers, that many of those who 
navigate the Thames in tugs and barges are known to their com-- 

(80) 




THE DEVIL'S WARD. 81 

panions by no surname, but by a contraction of the Christian name 
—if the possession of anything Christian may be attributed to a 
bargee—or more commonly by a nickname suggested by some pecu¬ 
liarity of costume. Thus Rainbow’s appellation was manifestly at¬ 
tributable to the neckerchief of many colors which encircled his 
throat. When he died—for I regret to say he was cut off at the 
height of his career—no other name could be found for him. All 
that was mortal of him lies in a grave under the shadow of the 
parish church of Gayne. From the rustic porch of that little temple 
you catch sight of the Thames over a bank of osiers, and listen to 
the never-ceasing music of the wear. The grave occupied by the 
captain of the “ Willy ” is covered with long grass and weeds, and 
a growth of deadly nightshade with its sickly white flower has en¬ 
twined itself above a wooden cross, on which is decipherable the 
pithy inscription— 


Here Lies Rainbow. 

Jo had no other name than that by which he was familiarly 
called, or'if he had he never disclosed it. And although the Devil 
was known to have a widowed mother living in the village of Shep- 
~ pertou, and rejoicing—or perhaps I should say sorrowing—initio 
name of Bight, he never by any chance obtained recognition for the 
fact. And, indeed, it may be conceded that he was lather proud 

- than otherwise of the style and title which had been conferred upon 
him by his discriminating mates. 

The Devil had not received his name on account of any great 
_ moral obliquity. In moments of excitement and during times of 
emergency he could swear at large and after a fashion which 
brought tears of genuine joy to the eyes oh men old enough to claim 
him as son. But that which really gained him the sobriquet which 
through life he bore with a proper and becoming pride was a cer- 

- tain recklessness at all times, and an absolute fearlessness in the pres¬ 
ence of danger. 

For the rest he was of a frank, open, and even affectionate nature. 

His hair was blonde, his eyes bright and intelligent, and in his 
stiff corduroy trousers and thick blue jacket he presented no unpleas¬ 
ant picture as he sat with his seniors at the card-table exhibiting a 
seriousness and anxiety quite foreign to a nature habitually gay. 
Such, at the age of fifteen, was the Devil. 

Outside, the sun wa3 shining on the noon of a July day. The lark 
was high in the heavens, and odors of new-made hay were wafted 
down into a dim and insuffeiably stuffy fore-cabin—an apartment 
the natural temperature and sweetness of w^hich were greatly in¬ 
creased by the fact that its lower end communicated with the back 
of the engine-room. The atmosphere w T as thick as well as hot, for 
two of the four occupants of the cabin were smoking very full- 
flavored tobacco, in clay pipes colored beyond all parallel. In the 
open lockers above the table might be seen a rope of onions— 
bargees are passionately lond of onions—a pickle-bottle, a few egg- 
cups, some scraps of bread, and other indications of an occasional 
meal. 

The Devil went “ Nap.” But the Devil was having the devil’s 


$2 


THE DEVIL’S WARD. 

proverbial luck. He lost, and, having paid, he thre\y his cards on, 
the table. 

“ There!” he cried, with a resumption of his usual gayety. “ I'm 
sick on it.” 

His companions apparently resented this indication of moral 
cowardice on the part of the Devil, and expressed their opinions 
with a native force and elegance. 

Bounder apostrophized heaven, and uttered a wish to be struck 
stone blind it it was fair. 

Rainbow prayed to be condemnably condemned if he “ ever see 
the like ” 

Jo alone—the sagacious and thoughtful Jo—was silent. 

But in the catholicity of his retort, the Devil did not except even 
Jo. lie consigned the ‘persistent gamblers to a place reputed to be 
much warmer than even the cabin of the “ Willy,” and with a 
frank smile on his face darted up the companion-ladder and stood 
on deck bathed in sunshine and dazzled with the direct rays of the 
Great Luminary. ^ 

Down below, the three veterans spent little time in lamenting the 
Infidelity of their associate. 

. “ Gone arter that there bloomin’ kid,” suggested Bounder. 

‘‘ Ah! shouldn’t bloomin’ well wonder,” acquiesced Rainbow. 

Jo said nothing, but, like the determined old sportsman that he 
was, silently shuffled the dog-eared cards—disreputable pasteboards, 
.greasy and grimy as his own impassive countenance. 

The night before had been very dark. The water was low, and 
the heavily-laden barge in tow of the “ Willy ” had got aground. 
All efforts to float her had proved in vain; and the” Willy ’gallant¬ 
ly remained in her company all night, waiting till such time as it 
should please the lock-keeper, a mile or more above, to draw his 
paddles. There lay the poor stranded hulk—black, huge, and help¬ 
less, the blue smoke from the funnel of her after-cabin mounting in 
a thin straight line to heaven. 

Beyond the tow-path stretched the green expanse of Runimede, 
till it met the wooded slope of Cooper’s Hill. On this historic spot, 
where King John and his barons assembled, the unconscious cows 
now ruminate; and the daisy and the meadow-sweet luxuriate above 
the long-effaced footprints of the chargers, or the deeper indentations 
■of tent poles and the supports of brave banners. Across the stream 
is Magna Gharta island, where, according to some fond authorities, 
King -John affixed sign-manual and seal to an interesting document 
now on view at the British Museum. By the margin of this lair 
-eyot, the heavy foliage of chestnut and oak threw cool shadows 
across the stream, and the air was flooded with the song of black¬ 
bird and throstle, and the twitter of titlark and sparrow. 

The Devil had little eye for the scenic beauties: he had been born 
among them. Nor was he stirred by the historic memories associ¬ 
ated with the spot: he was ignorant of them. He skipped nimbly 
along the narrow plank that led from the tug to the tow-path, and 
stood in front of a little boy, who sat among long grasses and 
poppies, regarding with fascinated gaze the fire in the engine-room 
i)f the “ Willy.” 


THE DEYIL ? S WARD. 8$ 

The hopeful heir of the Widow Bight regarded the little waif witli 
an expression half comic and halt sympathetic. 

“ Well, mate; not gone yet—eh?” 

The child smiled, held out a plucked poppy in token of pleasure 
and recognition, and shook his head. 

“ Wy, you've been in this blessed place more’n three hours. 
You’re a rummun, you are.” 

The boy nodded his head in acknowledgment of this gratuitous 
flattery. The Devil threw himself on the grass by his side, and 
said— 

” Where do you live?” 

The boy turned round, pointed out a vague semicircle, which 
’ might include halt the universe beyond Cooper’s Hill, and replied— 
“ Over dere!” 

” Ah!” said the Devil reflectively; “ I’m glad 1 know.” 

The blue eyes of the child—he could not have been more than 
four years of age—were again turned toward the burning interior of 
the tug. The Devil gazed at him thoughtfully. He noted his curly 
brown hair, his fair skin, just touched with the summer tan; his 
white dress, clean but, ot common material; his thick shoes and 
stockings, now somewhat stained by contact with mother earth. 

“ Say, mate,” he inquired presently, “ wot’s yer name? What 
d’they call you?” # 

“ I’m Johnny. What’s your name?” 

- *' Me? I’m the Dev—” 

It was the strangest thing in the world. For the fiisl time since 
he had silently accepted the sobriquet he appeared ashamed ot it. 
_ He broke off with ill-concealed awkwardness, and continued— 

” Don’t matter who 1 am. I’m nobody, 1 ain’t.” 

“ Me go with you” said the child, with the settled determination 
of one who after long and anxious deliberation had chosen a career. 

- The Devil gave a long whistle indicative of surprise, and again 
gazed with curiosity at his small companion. 

“ Wy, you’re on’y a kid, mate.” 

But Johnny’s slender acquaintance with natural history compelled 
~ him to deny that proposition entirely. 

“ Me not a kid. Me a boy. Me go with you” 

“ That be blowed tor a tale!” replied the Devil, in the fine and 
figurative phraseology of his race. Johnny, judging rather from the 
Devil’s tone and expression than from his*words, that a gratification 

* of his wbh had been denied, put the back of his little left hand to 
^his eyes and sobbed. The Devil could not stand tears. He placed 

his hand gently on the uplifted one of the boy, and said, in a tone 
_ that was mild and comforting as a mother’s— 

“ Come, mate; stow that there! D’ye hear?” 

" Reassured, the small wanderer smiled faintly through his tears, 
but returned to the attack. 

* “ Me will go with you?” 

- “Orright, Johnny; we’ll see. ’Ave a bite?” saying which he 
drew from the pocket ot his jacket a ribston pippiu—robbed from 
what orchard Iknow not—and presented it to his protege. Then, in 
order throughly to restore harmony, he chanted to him a lugubrious 


$4 THE DEYIl/S WARD. 

melody, which, as rendered by himself, contained the following 
formidable stanza— 

“ Oh. the birds was a singin’ in the mawnin, 

The hivy hand the myrtle was in bloom; 

The sun 9’erthe 'ills was adornin’, 

That's wen we laid ’er in the tomb.” 

Costermongers and bargees, although by no means open to a 
charge of sentimentality, affect a melancholy theme and measure 
when they call for music. And they prefer the sad themes drawn 
out through many verses. It was a lengthened lay, long dwelt upon 
in every note of it, that the Devil sung to the child nestling among 
the long grasses. When the Devil was engaged in singing, he 
threw his whole soul into the business. When he had ended he 
was grieved to find that the brown curls of Johnny were reposing on 
his corduioys, and that he-was sleeping the sleep of the innocent. 

“ Oh, scissors! ’Ere’s a go. Hi! Johnny. Waykehup. D’ye 
year?” 

But the tired and unconscious Johnny slept on. 


CHAPTER II. 

Puzzled at first, tye Devil grew eventually pleased as he gazed 
down on the sleeping* child. A proud feeling of possession seized 
him. He was patron and protector of something more beautiful 
than water-lily or honeysuckle, more intelligent than the birds, 
more amusing by far than Bounder’s cur, an ill-groomed but pre¬ 
cocious mongrel that stood on its hind legs and pretended to smoke 
an empty pipe. 

With an awkward, half-shamed movement the Devil smoothed 
the brown curls of his charge, and saw a smile play about his lips 
as if the contact had passed through the gates of sleep. Pale blue 
were the closed eyelids, as though—to use Rossetti’s exquisite fancy— 

“ As though some sky of dreams shone through.” 

Contemplation is fatal to minds not trained to a perception of a 
strict morality. Thus, if the Devil saw a desirable apple, he forth¬ 
with annexed it. He had been known to net fish on reaches of the 
Thames most vigilantly guarded by anglers’ protection societies and 
the like. And woe to the rabbit that came across Lis path. He had 
not a drop of gypsy blood in his veins, jet he was as predatory in 
his tastes as any nomad that ever slept under dirty canvas. And if, 
when occasion offered, he converted to his own use that which be¬ 
longed to others, it was because he was absolutely ignoiant of the 
difference existing between meum and tuum. 

As he gazed at the face of the tired and sleeping Johnny he re¬ 
called his determination so musically uttered, “ Me^o with you.” 

The Devil’s pluck, fearlessness, and indeed, 1 may add, his un¬ 
abashed audacity, had gained for him the admiration of men. His 
equals in age looked up to him as a superior spirit. Dogs and other 
dumb animals attached themselves to him and performed his some¬ 
times eccentric behests. But he had never known what it was to 
have a kind word said to him Ivy an innocent woman. He had never 



THE DEVIL’S WARD. 85 

'before attracted the sympathy of a child. The sensation was com¬ 
pletely novel. He felt absolutely tiadtered by this infantile prefer¬ 
ence. And as he once more recalled Johnny's determined, “ Me go 
with you,” he raised the sleeping boy in his arms. 

“ Then, by jimminy, you shall” he said, addressing his adopted 
child. 

He ran nimbly up the plank, deposited his charge in a convenient 
corner on board the “ Willy,” covered him over with a piece of tar¬ 
paulin, and then dashed down into the sultry obscurity of the fore- 
-cabin with the glad intelligence— 

” The} r ’ve drawed them paddles. 

Indeed, this was a fact, and while the Devil had been on shore the 
water had risen about half a foot. With true inconsistency the 
gamblers grumbled audibly at the interruption to the game, though 
in their hearts delighted that they could now proceed on their course. 

Boun.ler returned to his barge, the plank was drawn in, Jo de¬ 
scended in grim silence to his engine, Rainbow took his place at the 
wheel, and in the commotion that ensued the Devil carried a bundle 
covered with tarpaulin down the companion ladder into the vacated 
cabin. He deposited it with a tenderness almost womanly in his 
own bunk, and on the pillow—not over clean, I must confess—he 
laid a masterpiece in gingerbread purchased the day before at Staines 
lair. 

Then he rushed up again and prepared to make fast the tow line 
of the barge, singing, with all the sweet abandon of conscious inno¬ 
cence— 

“ Oh, Johnny, I hardly knew you.” 

Never did the act of a public man endanger his position or jeopar¬ 
dise his peace of mind more than this act on the part of the orphan 
of the Widow Bight, named after the Prince of Darkness. When 
eventually the barge was nearly floated, and the tug in moving it 
off reeled to and fro from the strain, he trembled lest (he slumberer 
below should be thrown from his resting-place. An awful sense of 
responsibility had taken possession of him. His usual gayety had 
left him. Rainbow, who depended greatly upon him for amuse¬ 
ment, rallied him on his evident preoccupation. 

Tug and barge—one at a time—had passed safely through Old 
Windsor Lock, and were proceeding up the long and narrow gut 
that reaches from the lock gate to the wear. On their left hand 
stretched the towpath, with Die meadows beyond extending to the 
confines ot the royal park. On die oilier bank thick luxuriant foli¬ 
age clustered to the margin ot the stream and bent over it, and some¬ 
times kissed it, the river answering with a ripple. Forget-me nots 
studded the loam of the bank cut straight as a railway cutting, and 
the dog-rose and wild honeysuckle filled the air wilh fragrance. 

It was while they were in this particular stage of their upward 
journey that Rainbow heard above the tlirob t of the engine, the work¬ 
ing of the screw, and the hissing of the steam, a sound that had 
never been heard aboard the ‘‘Willy” since that craft left the 
.stocks. 

It was the sound of a child’s cry. 

‘‘What’s that?” he inquired sharply, wiping the perspiration 


86 


THE DEVIL’S WARD. 

from bis forehead with the back of his left hand, his right grasping 
a spoke of tlie wheel. 

“ Dunno,” replied his unabashed companion. And then with a 
sudden inspiration, anticipated in moie classic phrase by no less a 
writer than Shakespeare, added, “ Specks it’s a bloomin’ rat.” 

On this he descended once more to the cabin, where by means of 
whispered and hurried cajoleries he managed to allay the terror^ ot 
his ward. Then, feeling that something must be done to engage his 
attention, and, if possible, open his mind and encourage his taste, 
he placed before him a copy ot the “ Police News,” the ghastly 
front page of which, in all its primitive enormity, seemed to have a 
fascination for the Devil’s Adopted. 

But a secret oi the kind cannot be kept, and the next day Johnny’s 
existence—owing to his own thirst tor knowledge and love of ad¬ 
venture—became known, In fact, the little stranger had climbed 
from his bunk, had ascended the ladder, and stood on the top look¬ 
ing straight at Rainbow, who was more startled at the apparition 
than he would choose to acknowledge. The Devil bowed before 
the storm which he knew must break over his devoted head. But 
in the end the child conquered. Jo had ascended from the engine- 
room to investigate the mystery. The three occupants of the 
** Willy” stood gazing at him, as at some strange and beautiful 
freak of Nature. There was a pleading and pathetic expression in 
Johnny’s face which won their hearts. 

“ Who am 1?” asked Rainbow, in gruff but not unkindly tones.. 

“ Daniplioon,” replied the child with angelic sweetness. 

Indeed, Johnny had heard the Devil apply the appellation of con¬ 
demned fool to the captain, so that his imperfect memory of it must* 
considering his age, be accounted to him as a very triumphant effort 
of politeness. The men, instantly translating the boy’s imperfect 
locution, burst into a loud guffaw. Their laughter, however, died 
suddenly away. They looked at each other awkwardly. Notone 
of them knew that there was the slightest harm in an oath. Com¬ 
ing from those baby lips it sounded oddly inharmonious. It was a 
note sung sadly out of tune. It hurt their ears. That was all. It 
insulted no moral sense. Indeed, it commended the child to them. 
It was as though he had been initiated into the mysteries of the 
craft. 

“ Take His Nibs below, Devil,” said the captain, “ and see ’ere,” 
—this in a lower tone—“ don’t you get teachin’ ’im none o’ your 
precious lingo, it ain’t too choice, d’ye year?” 

With this simple ceremony the lost child was committed to the 
keeping of-the Devil, and Johnny became one of the crew of the 
“Willy.” 


CHARTER III. 

Three months have passed. October is growing old. Hitherto 
the autumn has been exceptionally mild, and though the fall of the 
leaf has set in, the foliage does not fly in clouds before bitter winds. 
Leaf by leaf falls gently to the bosom of mother earth, still retain¬ 
ing some life and w T armth. 

In Chertsey Lane the hedgerows have turned to old gold. The 



THE devil’s ward. . 87 

acorn drops from the spreading oak, and is ruthlessly trodden by the 
toot of the passing tramp. The voices of women sound from across 
the hedges. Already the plow glides slowly through the cornfields, 
and the rooks follow its track, finding upturned sustenance in the 
rich brown furrows. 

Here is a break in the hedge, on either side of which cluster berries 
redder than the breast of" the robin that perches among them. 
Through the break is discovered a marshy no-man’s land covered 
•with osiers, and among the osiers you can just catch sight of a gypsy 
ncampment, with scraps of linen—men’s shirts and women’s pettf- 
< oats hanging on the osier tops to dry. Beyond the encampment and 
the osiers, if you still look through the break, you catch sight of the 
Thames reflecting a leaden sky, and looking cold and deserted. 

_ Sir Fenton Hook from the safe eminence of his saddle looks par¬ 
ticularly unamiable as his eye falls on the tents and hanging linen 
of the swarthy vagabonds. As a magistrate he has a natural antip¬ 
athy to vagrants of all kinds, and as a large landowner with farms 
stocked with poultry, and preserves full of game, he has a very par¬ 
ticular objection to the tanned itinerants of ancient and Oriental 
descent, who have inherited a pernicious habit of camping out all 
the year round. 

Sir Pen ton Hook does not look a very happy man. And yet he 
possesses much that is supposed in this world to afford felicity. He 
is thirty-five years of age, which, though nowadays counted ad¬ 
vanced, is still the period of early manhood. He is rich, boasts 
some ol the best blood in the country, and is blessed in the posses¬ 
sion of a wife who is accounted a beauty, who has a genuine admira¬ 
tion for her husband, and whose family is equal in social reputation 
to his own. Indeed, Lady Hook was one of the Egham Plythes, a 
family whose services to the crown and the country are matters of 
history. 

Although Sir Penton Hook is the youngest member on the 
bench of which he is an ornament, his opinion has consid¬ 
erable weight. He is quick to grasp tacts, is an excellent 
judge of the demeanor of a witness, and having, before the death 
of his father, been called lo the bar, has a smattering of law, and 
of its practice, which gives his expression of opinion a certain 
judicial tone entirely impossible to his colleagues, who are simply 
country gentlemen of a dull and somewhat domineering tempera¬ 
ment. It is well, possibly, that there is some one in the commission 
jn Sir Penton’s district who can “shape the whisper” of the 
bench, as it is a fact perfectly well known to bucolic litigants that 
the chairman is an octogenarian idiot. 

The worthy baronet has pulled up his horse opposite the break in 
the hedge, anxious, probably, to see whether any of the occupants 
of the encampment will discover themselves. And while his keen 
eyes are piercing through and over the gaps in the osier bed, his 
horse is approached on the other side by a woman of striking ap¬ 
pearance. She has a full figure, large red lips, a handsome but by 
no means refined face. She is, moreover, well dressed, and her 
large hands are elegantly gloved. Her hat and feather are scarcely 
in good taste, and, although even a casual observer would declare 


88 the devil’s ward. 

her offhand to be a remarkably fine woman, not one man in a hun¬ 
dred would mistake her for a lady. The points were wrong. 

She is now in a state of considerable excitement. She catches hold 
of the horse’s bridle, and calls to the rider. 

“ Pen?” 

He turns round with a start which is momentary. He is thereafter 
calm and self-possessed, and inquires in measured tones— 

“ Well?” 

“ Oh, Pen, don’t speak so cruelly. 1 have kept my promise to 
you—faithfully, indeed, 1 have. I’ve never come near you. But 
they’ve stolen our child, Pen—” 

‘‘You have broken your promise now, madam,” answered the 
county magnate. “You spoke of our child. Tour child, I think, 
you meant.” 

“ 1 didn’t mean it, indeed I didn’t. But do tell me you haven’t 
seen him? You haven’t stolen him from his nurse?” 

“ Don’t be a fool, madam. And listen 10 reason. 1 don’t know 
with whom your child is staying—nor do I wish to know. 1 have 
never seen your child since—that is to say, l have never seen him. 
1 have made you an ample provision. You will remember on what 
conditions. You have a copy of the deed. Read it, and be careful 
in future as to how you molest one who has been considerate—1 may 
say, very considerate—in his dealings with you.” 

"The woman has placed her hands to her eyes, site has withdrawn 
them again at the end of Sir Peuton’s formal address, delivered in 
clear, metallic accents. Her eyes are rolling wildly, and hot tears 
are streaming down her cheeks. 

“ Oh, Pen, you loved me once. Give me back my child. 1 think 
I’m going mad.” 

“ Indeed, 1 think you are, madam,” he answered, with a sneer; 
“ and in case your anticipation should be verified, pray depend on 
my interest to obtain you admission to the county asylum. I wish 
you good-evening.” 

He raised his hat with studied deference, he touched his horse with 
the spur, he galloped forward, and in a moment was hidden by a 
bend in the lane. 

The woman stood still as a statue, staring between a passage of 
elms down which horse and rider had disappeared. Five minutes 
afterward a gypsy woman emerged from the osieis, smoking a short 
clay pipe. 

“ lellyeyer fortune, my beautitul lady,” insinuated the crone. 
The beautiful lady stared stupidly at her, answered never a word, 
and, turning from her, walked slowly up the deserted lane. 

Meanwhile, Sir Penton Hook had arrived at his home, had dis¬ 
mounted from his horse, had sought the fair daughter of Egham- 
Ilythes in her ladyship’s own drawing-room, had expressed a desire 
to see his infant daughter, and had announced his determination to 
take some really serious measures in the direction of suppressing 
tramps. 

Her ladyship, who deeply sympathized with all her husband’s 
public acts, accorded her hearty consent to any measures which he 
might deem it necessary to inaugurate, and trusted that he would 
stand for the county at the impending election. For Lady Hook was 


the devil’s ward. 89 

an ambitious woman, and cherished an idea that a young, influential, 
and talented man like her husband might make liimsell so useful to 
bis party as eventually to claim as a reward for his services the 
light to have a coronet engraved on his plate and painted on his 
panels. 


* CHAPTER IV. 

Fifteen years have elapsed since Johnny went on board the 
stranded tug. Fifteen years have elapsed since Sir Penton Hook 
had that memorable meeting in the lane. To the estimable baronet 
Time had not brought important changes He was filteen years 
older. His liairwas sprinkled with gray. Pie represented his county 
in imperial Parliament. But his party was “ out,” he had never 
tasted the sweets of office, and was as fur as ever from the coveted 
peerage. 

His position on the bench was paramount. He always sat at Petty 
Sessions when his duties in the House did not prevent. The octo¬ 
genarian idiot, to whom passing allusion has already been made, had 
joined the majority, and Sir Penton Hook had been elected to the 
vacant chairmanship. It was felt that he was the right man in the 
right place, although it was also believed that he ruled his colleagues 
with a rod of iion. 

In the humbler and younger characters of this story Time had 
wrought changes more perceptible. At the beginning of life and at 
the end of it the years tell more sensibly on the children of men. 
Rainbow had been cut off untimely during a collision, and his re¬ 
mains were duly deposited in their long home. 

The Devil, who found it quite impossible to change the preju¬ 
dicial appellation given to him in a moment of undue levity, had 
been raised to the dignified position of captain of the “Willy.” 
Less reckless than of yore, the captain was still regarded as a man 
of some daring, and the Thames Conservancy officials narrowly 
watched the navigation of his craft so that haply he might one clay 
be indicted for a breach of the by-laws. 

Jo, grimy and gritty as of yore, and more gray and grizzled, still 
presided in the engine-room regulating: the motive power, without 
which the “ Willy ” would for all purposes of tugging have been 
comparatively useless. He preserved his ancient reputation for 
reticence* and was a shining example to all his contemporaries on 
the Thames who happened to be addicted to the riverain vice of 
swearing. 

But the greatest change of all was that observable in Johnny. 
That hero was a baby in short frocks when he entered on a public 
career—a child in his fourth summer when he accepted service on 
board the “ Willy.” Now he was a youth of nineteen, erect and 
supply as a withy, bright as trie sunshine, with a smile which came 
and went like the ripples on the Thames that ho loved, and with an 
uncertain timid growth on his upper lip which, like the premature 
buds of spring, seemed always destined to be the victim of an un¬ 
timely frost. 

lie and the Devil were inseparable, and, although they were com¬ 
panions both during work aboard and in the less frequent frolic on 



90 


TIIE DEVIL’S WARD. 


shore, Johnny always looked up to the Devil. He paid him the 
homage due to his guardian, and the guardian in his turn treated 
his ward with an air of proud protection, of affectionate patronage, 
quite comic in its unaffected seriousness. No parent ever took a 
more lively interest in the welfare of his son. His feeling was per¬ 
haps quickened by the thought that on some day of wrath his ward 
might be claimed and taken from him. Yet, with an inconsistency 
which was characteristic , he carefully preserved the clothes which 
Johnny wore when first he saw him playing among the poppies— 
that poor wardrobe by which alone he could be identified. 

Were 1 asked whether Johnny had added to his vocabulary of ex¬ 
pletives since his infant lips framed themselves to the utterance of 
“ Damphoon,” 1 should be obliged to confess that: his vocabulary 
had been somewhat enlarged. This, you see, is an Unvarnished 
Tale. There will, I assure you, be no startling denouement. Nor 
will any attempt be made to paint for you a bargee in heroic colors, 
but rather to paint him as he is. A certain amount of hard swearing 
seems unavoidable in the navigation of tugs and barges, and Johnny 
gained proficiency in this as in other accomplishments common to 
his calling. And my own belief about him is that the recording 
angel will treat his verbal indiscretions much as he did that famous 
one of my Uncle Toby—if indeed a staff of recording angels be not 
set apart for the especial accommodation of the race. 

Owing to his not having sworn long enough and loud enough on 
one particular occasion Johnny found himself the recipient of a sum¬ 
mons to attend before the bench over wdiich the redoubtable Sir 
Penton Hook presided. The tacts are short and simple. Moreover 
they lead up to the closing episode of this narrative, and must be 
briefly set out iiere. 

One day during the summer and the absence of the Devil, Johnny 
had been in charge of the tug Jowing a barge from Kingston to 
Windsor. He was in the channel and hugging the shore, when a 
pleasure boat drifted on to him. Three gentlemen were lying at the 
bottom of the skiff, and one of them, who jumped up to use his 
paddle-hitcher, fell overboard just as the bow* of the boat came on 
that of the barge. 

The Thames Conservancy took the case up with a vigor and in¬ 
tentness quite out of proportion to the incident. The person then 
actually steering the “Willy” was summoned. That person was 
Johnny The hearing—owing to a not unaccountable difficulty ex¬ 
perienced by the officers of the Conservancy in obtaining facts and 
the names of witnesses—did not come off until the first week in 
December. 

The owner of the tug “ Willy a widow who was impressed with, 
the notion that her servants could do no wrong—provided able legal 
assistance for the defense, and the crew of the “ Willy ” appeared in 
court on the day mentioned in the summons, dressed in their Sunday 
best and by no means so much impressed with the solemnity of the 
surrounding circumstances as might be supposed. Johnny, indeed, 
was on this occasion possessed of the mens conscia recti, and antici¬ 
pated no difficulty whatever in proving to the satisfaction of the 
bench that he managed his craft wilh all possible care. 

Johnny and the Devil found much to amuse them in the bustle of 


THE DEVIL'S WARD. 


91 


the court, the importance of the crier, and the air of calm superiority 
which characterized the magistrates’ clerk. Presently, amid a cry 
ot 44 Silence,” Sir Penton Hook, .accompanied by a couple ot col¬ 
leagues, entered and took his seat on the bench. 

First the charges were disposed of. These were few in number, 
the last being ihat of a woman who was accused of having been 
drunk and incapable. She was a tall woman, and fifteen or twenty 
years ago had no doubt been extremely good-looking. But her 
cheeks were sunken, her eyes blood-shot, and, and her appearance 
generally disheveled A night in the cells after a day of intemper¬ 
ance does not enhance the charms of even the most beautiful. She 
gave the name ot Mason, and during the whole time of hearing the 
charge, Sir Penton Hook, who usually disconcerted prisoners by 
the keen directness ot his gaze, kept his eyes averted from Mrs. 
Mason ; and when the evidence had been heard he ordered the super¬ 
intendent ot police to take his place in the witness box, 

“ Is anything known of this unfortunate woman?” 

” Very little, your worship. She’s never been charged* She does 
occasionally come down here from town. Says she’s lookin’ tor a 
-child she had out at nurse years ago which was lost or stolen. Beg¬ 
ging your worship’s pardon, I think she’s a little queer,” the super¬ 
intendent here tapped his forehead to further elucidate his meaning, 
44 and a little drop takes eltect on her.” 

“ Have you inquired as to the truth of her story?” went on the 
magistrate in his measured metallic tones 

44 Yes, your worship, she did have a child at nurse with a Mrs. 
Rowle, which strayed away and hasn’t been heard of since; sup¬ 
posed to have been stolen by gypsies.” 

44 How long ago?” 

” About fifteen year, your worship.” 

All eyes were turned either on the bench or on the prisoner, so no 
one took any particular notice of Ihe Devil. That gentleman’s eyes 
were dilated. He fiddled nervously with his neckerchief—one that 
Rainbow had given him—and he gazed uneasily at Johnny, who sat 
on the form beside him, evidently taking a sympathetic and senti¬ 
mental interest in the prisoner at the bar. 

Sir Penton Hook whispered to his two colleagues rather to inform 
them the decision he had arrived at himself than to ask any assist¬ 
ance from them Then he turned to the woman and asked— 

1 “ Have you anything to say?” 

44 No, 5 ' replied Mrs Mason absently. 

Then, in his habitually cold and collected manner, Sir Penton 
Hook said— 

44 The magistrates regret to see a person ot your apparent respecta¬ 
bility in a position so humiliating. Your dress would indicate that 
you are not without means. An indulgence in the vice of drunken¬ 
ness may, if persevered in, land you in the jail or the asylum. Fortu¬ 
nately for you, nothing is known against you by the police. The 
superintendent will give you your fare to town. Take care that 
you never appear before this bench again, or 1 promise that it will 
go hardly with you. You are discharged.” 

Mrs. Mason said nothing, but walked out of dock. The sum¬ 
mons of the Conservancy against the captain of the 44 Willy ” was 


93 


THE DEVIL'S WARD. 

then called. Johnny stepped lightly into the place vacated by Mrs. 
Mason, and she dropped listlessly into the seat next the Devil, 
■which, up to then, had been occupied by the object of the Conserv¬ 
ancy's righteous indignation. 

Wliilelbe case against the “ Willy” was being opened, and the 
three gentlemen who had drifted on to her were being examined,, 
the ]>evil, suffering doubtless from twinges ot conscience, had en¬ 
tered into conversation with Mrs. Mason, and had related to that 
misguided woman a narrative which caused all her listlessness and 
apathy to disappear. Her tace brightened with intelligence, ^lm 
whispered eager questions, and her companion had occasionally 
some difficulty in restraining her from rising from her place and per¬ 
forming an act which, in his view, would have been highly iui- 
prudeut. 

After the story of carelessness had been made good by the Con¬ 
servancy’s witnesses, Johnny was offered as eridence by his solicitor, 
and deposed generally to the correctness of his course on the occasion 
in question, and the care he had manifested in navigating his craft. 
He gave his evidence with simple directness. It was in cross- 
examination that his proverbially excellent temper began to fail him. 

” You are acquainted with the Conservancy's bj-laws?” asked the 
officer ot the hoard. 

“ Well, not -what you’d call exactly. There’s on’y three hundred 
of ’em, an’ thosoare changed about once a year.” 

“ Do you know By law "Thirty-Six?” 

“ Teil me what it says. 1 don’t know it by its number.” 

” Well, it enacts that in circumstances precisely similar to those 
which have brought you here to-day, you are to slacken speed/ or, 
if necessary, stop altogether. You know 

“ Yes, but 1 couldn’t a’ done it?” 

“ Aud why, pray?” 

“ Because "the current would have taken the head ot my tug out, 
and, instead of hitting her on the bow, I’d have cut the skiff down 
amidships.” 

This view of the vaunted by-law was home out by other wit¬ 
nesses. When* however, the bench came to deliver judgment they 
declined to adopt the theory ot the defense. Sir Penton^ Hook was 
the owner of a house boat and of skiffs, canoes, and other light craft 
Tetained for the pleasure and convenience ot his children. He was 
therefore opposed to all tugs and barges as being lumbering and un¬ 
manageable eyesores, calculated to place his offspring in jeopardy. 
He administered a severe reprimand to the defendant, ordering him 
at the same time to pay a tine of five pounds and the costs of the 
case. 

“ 1 won’t pay a farthing,” said Johnny, steadily eying the chair¬ 
man. 

Sir Penton Hook was a gentleman who could not bear to he con*- 
tradicted. 

“ You will be sent to jail if you don’t,” he said, in his most im¬ 
pressively judicial tone. 

** 1 don’t care for that,” said Johnny, with quite as much temper 
and determination as his judge. *‘ It’s a wrong sentence, and if you 
say 1 should have eased or stopped you mean I ought to have com.- 


THE DEVIL'S WARD. 93 

mUted murder, and, by God, you look the man that wouldn’t stop 
Short at that neither.” 

“ Officer!” exclaimed the chirman of the bench, arrest that fel¬ 
low tor contempt.” 

But before the awful minister of the law who was so suddenly 
summoned could approach his prey, Mrs. Mason had jumped from 
her place, had re-entered the inclosure from which an hour ago she 
had been released, and placing her arm round the astonished deiend- 
ant’s neck cried out— 

** Sir Penton Hook, take care what you do. I have found him. 
It is uur—it is my child. He shall not go to jail 1 will not let 
him go.” 

Her head dropped on Johnny ? s shoulder, and she sobbed hysteric¬ 
ally. 

Scenes of this sort are calculated to interrupt the course of justice 
in the best regulated temples of the law. The officer of the court 
was advised to take no further notice of the defendant, who, indeed, 
had been premature in refusing to pay a fine which his proprietor 
was ready to settle. 

** Call the next case,” said the apparently unmoved Sir Penton, 
as mother and son left the court together. “ Quite a romantic con¬ 
clusion to a pair of very commonplace cases,” he went on, turning 
to his colleagues. 

** Quite,” they acquiesced, with deferential unanimity. 
******* 

Mother and son get on as well as can be expected in the case of a 
mother who lovecT not wisely, and of a son who took to running 
away at the early age of four. They have taken a cottage on tho 
banks of the Thames, not far from the 9cene of the boy’s infantile 
truancy. The Devil, whose sense of duty had impelled him to be¬ 
tray his own secret, lodges with them when ashore, and professes 
himself as less bereaved than when at first Johnny’s mother gained 
possession of him. 

Sir Penton Hook is still much esteemed in Parliament and out of 
it. His patriotic opposition to the Franchise Bill may secure him a 
peerage, and he continues his determined dislike to tramps of all 
sorts and sexes. 

1 hold that the literary artist, in depicting character, should fol¬ 
low the advice of Caleb Plummer, and go as near nature as he can 
for sixpence. In describing Jo, the engineer, as a bargee who never 
swore, I may be accused of departing from a rule so evidently 
sound, i can only say that Jo is sketched from life, and 1 can only 
add, by way of apology, that Jo was dumb. 


NOT DEAD. 


A CHRISTMAS STORY. 

By F. GROSS. 


There is a symphony of Haydn’s, in which one instrument after 
another drops off, till at the close the last musician disappears, and 
onlj r the empty music-stands remain to tell that there has been a con¬ 
cert. This symphony recurs to my mind as 1 begin to tell the story 
ot a family in whose midst the angel of death held sway inexorable. 
After all there is not much to tell, and nothing strange or uncom¬ 
mon. There is no Attraction for the lovers of exciting sensational 
literature in the simple relation of what this family went through, 
and how they spent last Christmas-eve. All that lives must die; all 
that exists must pass away. In vain, then, we cry out. against fate, 
and kick against the iron order of the world; believe me, dear reader, 
it is of no avail. The world is governed so that human opposition 
has not a word to say, it is established as an absolute monarchy. 
Here, then, as so often, what happened was only in the course of 
nature. The family at one time counted a goodly number of heads. 
So many members of it assembled on high days and holidays that, 
when they met together, the great round dining-table was not large 
enough. Sometimes a plate was wanting, sometimes a knife and 
fork. Well, so it is, men have children, and two easily grow into 
three, but knives and forks do not increase, except in fairy tales, 
where even arm-chairs can speak, and pen-holders make love to ink- 
stands. And this family very often came together thus numerously, 
for all birthdays and w'edding-days were celebrated in common, and 
they had all birthdays, and most of them were married. This lasted 
for some years. From the great-grandmother down to the great¬ 
grandchild—the last a very young lady indeed—they lived- merrily 
and happily. But the happiest time was Christmas. At this season 
sorrow and joy are intensified, solitude presses harder than usual, 
communion with kind-hearted, genial people is doubly enjoyable. 
The thought of the Christmas festival rested like sunshine on the 
lieads of the loved and loving ones. The grandmother who had to 
give presents to four generations became young again, the great- 
grand rlaughter became a grown-up person, who had to collect 
together her whole experience ot life to bring joy to the old woman. 
In the evening, when the little one wore nothing but a long, w T hite 

(94) 



NOT DEAD. 


95 

nightdress, and when she had repeated her usual evening prayer, 
then she knelt up in her bed and prayed to the Christ-cliild to come 
to the great-£rraudmotlier too, for the good old lady would certainly 
be bitterly disappointed it she did not get a present. The six-year- 
old AIary judged of the old lady by herself. Mary looked forward 
tor twelve months to the festival, with its little fir tree and all the 
m burning wax lights, and in the middle of November she confessed: 
“Now I should like to go to sleep, and not wake up till the Christ¬ 
mas tree is lighted up.” In all her love tor her great-grandtnotlier, 
however, Mary did hot forget her own little person. First, as we 
have said, she asked the good God in the usual way for her daily 
bread—always adding, “ with noneyand butter’’—then she earnest¬ 
ly implored the Christ child not to neglect the great-grandmother, 
but, lastly—she never puts herself forward in the first rank—she 
brought forth her own personal wishes to the Christ-child. These 
were neither small nor few. Once they rose up to five and among 
them was the request for a leaden kitchen, in which dinners and 
suppers could really be prepared for her own dolls and those of the 
little friends invited, according to the receipts in the “ Cookery Book 
for Economical Housekeepers.” Mary was quite conscious of not 
being in the least childish—how could one be so at six years old!— 
“ she took care not to follow' the example of little Anna, who once 
directed a letter “ To the Christ-child at Vienna,” and threw' it un¬ 
stamped into a letter-box. She set about it more wisely. She had 
been told that a good angel watched beside the bed of every child 
during its sleep. She acted upon this, and in the evening laid a lit- 
- tie list of her w'ishes on the eider-down quilt, under which she dived, 
like a little bird into its nest, and she thought: “ My good angel will 
read that and give the paper to the Christ-child, for he must certain¬ 
ly know him. He will put in a good w T oid for me.” She was not 
disappointed. In the morning the note had disappeared. At break¬ 
fast the mother smiled mysteriously. The child’s good angel had 
really been in the room. ALaiy had hit upon the right way; and 
^ she had not made a mistake; the angel w’ould manage to decipher 
' her somewhat unformed handwriting. Under the tree, fragrant 
with odors of the pine forest, rustling with fairy gifts, with golden 
nuts and silver apples growing on it, lay all the things that Mary 
had put down in the famous list The good angel, and the Christ- 
child weie then intimately related to one another—or, perhaps, they 
were only one person with the gentle features of her mother? The 
little great-granddaughter showed how clever she was. Though she 
was only six years old she would not believe that the stork brought 
little children in liis bill, and laid them on the loots of people’s 
bouses; she .knew, very well that an old woman, whose name was 
Meyer, went about with a large pocketful of little boys and girls, 
and gave brothers and sisters to the best children. When papa oncer 
told her Mrs. Meyer had taken out of her pocket a little sister, not 
bigger than a doll, and left it for Alary, the sharp little one asked* 
“ Does mamma know about it?” 

Alary was doomed to learn early the meaning of tears, sorrow, 
and mourning. Children are wiser on the day of their birth than 
in the first years of their life—they come weeping into the world, as 
if they knew what was in store for them, but then they quiet down 


NOT DEAD. 


36 


and make somersaults into life, till one day a lightning flash de- 
scends.and a fearful thunder rolls. 

A great epidemic passed through the world, the pestilence raged 
which is personified by the poet as singing: 

“ I mow down the world with my pilgrim’s staff, 

And leave it a desolate heath; 

With a weeping-wilLow before each door. 

And a family grave beneath.” 

TI lie grandmother died, and then uncles and aunts died, and, last of 
all, Anna, Mary’s sister. It seemed as it the whole family was to 
be extirpated root and branch. And those who were left sunk into 
poverty. That was another great mortality that passed through the 
world, but this time no corpses were carried out to the place of rest; 
money-chests and drawers became empty, and, where plenty had 
reigned, penury entered in. The thriving years of easily earned 
wealth suddenly came to an end. Property seemed to melt away in 
a, night into nothing, into “ vain show.'’ The family had dwindled 
<iown to so few that they found room enough at the round table, 
which was no longer loaded with steaming dishes of costly viands. 
It is easier to travel downward than upward. Poverty comes in like 
& flood, and it rapidly Overtook our friends. 

Cliristmas-eve drew near. Despite their hard straits the parents 
could not bear to deprive Mary, now tlieir only child, of the magic 
■tree and the little surprises to which their darling was accustomed. 
They practiced close economy for weeks together in order to prepare 
a, merry Christmas-eve for Mary. Again she had drawn up a list 
for her guardian angel, this time instinctively limiting her wishes to 
very cheap things, and all that she desired had come. But it was 
for the last time. Mary had entered her eighth year when her par¬ 
ents sank to the lowest grade of poverty. Four bare walls inclosed 
the room in which father, mother, and child had to live together. 
But, confined as the space was, misfortune had made itself at home 
there—no hut is too small or too low for it; it creeps through a slit 
in the door, it crouches in a corner, contented with any home if it 
may only abide there. All was faded and dead around the bright 
Child. Mary felt betimes the leaden pressure of want. Not once 
did she express her wishes to lier parents, but when the month of 
November came, the childish longing grew too strong for her, and 
again she made out her list for the guardian angel. The good angel 
had taken it, but he seemed no longer to be on intimate terms with 
the Christ-child. The mother’s eyes were red with weeping when 
Mary awoke, and could scarcely suppress her joy that her bed- 
restanie little note had been claimed by the person to whom it was 
addicssed. At noon, when Mary came home from school, and the 
three were seated at their frugal meal, the mother said to the child: 

“ Do you know what has happened?” 

“ What, mamma?” 

44 The Christ-child is dead.” 

“ Dead? Then he will not come any more?” 

4 ‘ Ot course not. ” 

” But what was the matter with him?” 

** He caught cold.” 


i*OT DEAD. 


97 


“ Poor child! His mother must have cried a great deal.” 

“ You must not be sad, Mary.” 

“1 loved him so much, that good kind Christ-child. And now 
he is dead. Must death be, then, mamma?” 

The mother clasped the child in her arms, and covered her little 
head with tears and kisses. 

But Mary’s questions were not ended yet. The father was obliged 
to join in the conversation, to tell how'long the child had been ill 
and all the particulars ot his death. Maiy had a hundred ques¬ 
tions; one thing only she did not ask: how the announcement of the 
death had come to her parents. It was enough for her that father and 
mother had communicated it to her. She listened attentively, then 
she opened a drawer, took out ot it a little manger with a waxen 
Jesus-child with rosy, fat cheeks and azure blue eyes, and before 
the parents could ask her what she was going to do with it, she hur¬ 
ried out of the house into the court-yard, and dug sway with a little 
spade, till she had made a hole in the ground large enough to re¬ 
ceive the crib. Then she lowered it in, strewed sand and earth over 
it, knelt down, folded her hands, and prayed to her God. Father 
and mother had followed her cut; they waited till the child rose. 

” What have you been doing here?” asked the mother. 

“ It the Christ-child is dead, it must be buried.” 

The next day Mary came home from school and said her school¬ 
fellows had laughed at her when she told them of the death ot the 
Christ child. The daughter of a rich jeweler even knew very well 
what the Christ-child would bring her this time—a beautiful gold 
chain, ot Venetian work. As the mother still adhered to her state¬ 
ment that the Ctirist-ehild was dead, Mary believed her more than 
all her schoolfellows; but still she could not help wishing that her 
mother might be wrong, for now there would be an end of fir-trees,. 
nuts, apples, dolls, and picture books; now she need never lay her 
list on her coverlet airain. All was over, all! 

And Christmas-eve came round again. 

Silent and alone sat parents and child in the comfortless room. 
Mary was dreaming of days gone by—of tin soldiers and rocking- 
horses, of gingerbreads and chocolate bonbons, and, as she dreamed, 
it seemed as if her great-grandmother came in, as if the room was 
filled with all the beloved ones who used to heap good and beauti¬ 
ful things upon her on Christmas eves long ago. She pictured to 
herself how beautiful it would be in the world, if the Christ-child 
had not caught cold and died. Somebody had really come in—a 
tall, dignified lady, followed by a maid-servant; the latter took 
Mary by the hand, led her up to the first story, and told her to wait 
a qufirter ot an hour there. Meaanwliile, busy preparations were 
going on in the room below. The stately lady was the owner of the 
house. She had taken a fancy to little Mary, and wanted to give 
her a Christmas treat. Rich, widowed, and childless, she took pleas¬ 
ure in making other people’s children happy on the evening which 
is not without cause called “ holy.” A Christmas tree. The Jittle 
wax candles on its branches were lighted, and in the shadow of 
these branches the kind lady placed all sorts of beautiful and useful 
things for little people and many for grown-up people, and a purse 
lay beneath, through the silken meshes of which, gold peeped out, 

4 ... 


98 


NOT DEAD. 


and now, when the bare room was transformed into a fairy palace 
of enjoyment, Mary was brought in, 

Speechless, astonished, bewildered, the child remained standing 
on the threshold. She tried to speak and could not. Joy and ex¬ 
citement choked her voice. She looked inquiringly around her, 
seeking for explanation, for assurance. Then she burst into a pas 
sion of weeping. Tears are the language of the helpless and of chil 
dren. 

“ Then the Christ-child is not dead?” asked Mary, as soon as she 
recovered her speech. 

“No, he lives, and will live forever,” said her mother; ‘ we 
thought he was dead, but he is risen.” 

I “ And will he never die?” asked the child. 

* “ Never,” answered the mother, overcome by emotion. 

“ Never?” repeated the child. 

“ Never, as long as a heart beats in a human breast.” 

“Who brought you the news that you were mistaken—that the 
Christ-child is alive?” 

The parents pointed to the strange lady. The child fixed her 
large, timid, questioning eyes upon her, half in gratitude, half in 
astonishment. Then she danced about, clapped her hands joyfully, 
examined with delight all the Christmas gifts, and cried out, as 
children cry out when their hearts are full of gladness, “ The 
Christ-child is alive, and he will never die!” 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


By HENRY PETTITT. 


In taking up my pen to write the details of the following strange 
adventure, 1 am actuated by feelings of considerable doubt and per¬ 
plexity. The event itself is of so unusual, 1 may say so marvelous 
a nature, that I am aware I snail run considerable risk of being dis¬ 
believed, and 1 am therefore rather unwilling to announce my per¬ 
sonal identity, lest 1 should bring an avalanche of accusations of 
mendacity upon my devoted head, while to wrap myself in the im¬ 
penetrable mystery of an anonymous nonentity, or the doubtful per¬ 
sonality of a nom-de-plume would only give certainty to a very 
natural suspicion that 1 had not the courage to hold myself re¬ 
sponsible for a story that 1 had the temerity to tell. 

Shall 1, then, conceal my identity, or shall I proclaim it? Shall 
1, from a peaceful and irresponsible security, hurl my narration into 
the reading world, oi shall I stand boldly forth in the light of day 
prepared to meet my judges in propria persona, and say—1 am the 
man ? 

Let chance decide. On one of these two slips of paper lying on 
my desk, I will write a nom-de-plume, and upon the other my real 
name. If 1 draw the former, I will give such local coloring as will 
serve to hide my personality without interfering with the main de¬ 
tails of my narration. If I draw the latter, 1 will give a whole 
true, and particular account of myself, avow my real name, and tell 
an unvarnished story. 

1 roll up the papers, I place them in a hat, and shake it. I draw 
forth one, open it and read. The die is cast, you shall now know 
my name, and you shall now learn the full details of the strange ad¬ 
venture that is probably designed to exercise considerable influence 
upon my future career. 

My name, though a popular, is not a distinguished one; indeed, to 
give it any semblance of dignity at all, it requires a kind of shoring, 
or propping up with a baptismal prefix carefully culled from 
“ Burke’s Peerage,” or the index of towns in “ Bradshaw’s Railway 
Guide. ” 1 almost blush as 1 write letters that compose the wretched 
syllabic name of ” Brown,” though my feelings are slight.^ relieved 
as I preface it with the gift of my godfathers and godmothers in 
my baptism, “ Howard,” and thus stand revealed to you as Howard 
Brown, the prolific and popular dramatist, with whose plays (it 
you are a play-goer) you cannot but be acquainted. 

The importance of the revelations 1 am about to make is the best 
-( 99 ) 



100 


THE POET’S GHOST, 


excuse (1 might say reason) 1 can offer for giving some account of 
myself, so that the individuality of the man shall be strongly ini 
pressed on the miental vision of the reader. Picture to y'ourself, 
then, a young man of some thirty-live years of age, with what is 
generally called a strongly marked countenance, hair worn rather 
longer than is the usual fashion—a weakness that may be accounted 
for by my poetic temperament, and with a nasal organ the beak 
like proportions of which aie slightly out of drawing with the rest 
of my countenance; but then rny shaggy eyebrows and dome like 
expanse of forehead lend a dignity to my features, the architecture 
of which may be generally described as miscellaneous, with a slight 
tendency toward the Gothic. My voice is clear and distinct, and its 
melody by no means impaired by an occasional suggestion of an 
Irish brogue slightly dashed with Welsh I am of German extrac 
tion, was born in Wales, and educated in Dublin My father was 
in business in the city of London, and 1 was intended for the law, 
but directly I was able to spread my wings 1 fled from the parental 
nest and became an actor Unfortunately however, in the humble 
position I was forced to accept, I was not permitted to exercise my 
literary faculty in any channel except occasional!}'- making out the 
bill, and was, therefore, unable either to write up or adapt my parts 
to my personal peculiarities, a misfortune that very soon resulted 
in the manager presenting me with a fortnight’s salary in lieu of 
notice, and informing me that he would be blanked if he knew in 
what line of life I might ultimately be worth my salt, but it would 
certainly never be as an actor; unless, he added as I was sadly leav¬ 
ing, you do as many another bad actor has done, become a manager 
and engage yourself to play the leading parts, or buy a bundle of 
old plays, get a pair ol scissors, and set up as a dramatic author 

This practical advice 1 ultimately acted upon, as will be seen in 
the sequel, but in the meanwhile my father—whose prejudices 
against play-actors and penny-a-liners, as he was pleased to call (hem, 
it was impossible to overcome—stopped my allowance until 1 re¬ 
turned to what he considered some respectable occupation. 

I was therefore compelled to relinquish my hopes for a time, and 
earn my bread and gain experience as a commercial tiaveler, and 
afterward in my father’s counting house, where, no doubt, 1 im¬ 
bibed those commercial principles which have been of such seivice 
to me in my business transactions with managers and publishers, 
and enabled me to conquer that unfortunate tendency of most other 
authors to make bad bargains for themselves—a weakness that, 
whatever my other faults may be, has never yet, 1 believe, been laid 
to my charge. 

While still young, however, nay restless disposition impelled me 
to follow various other occupations, and enabled me to gain a varied 
experience of life. At one time 1 was a schoolmaster in a well- 
known London college; at another, the dramatic critic of a paper, 
which 1 left to become the acting manager of a very popular theater, 
and 1 also played character parts in a very fashionable one. 

It was at this period of my life that 1 commenced writing those 
sensational stories whose dramatic force first led theatrical managers 
to notice me; and some charming little comediettas, whose simplicity 
and freshness recommended them to the kindly notice of the press 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


101 


and the public, and gave me my first footing on the theatrical lad¬ 
der. My progress was rapid beyond all my expeotalions. In the 
theatrical world there is a singular appositeness in the ohl aphorism 
that “ nothing succeeds like success,” and one morning I awoke to 
find myselt famous and at the proud summit of my ambition, a 
successful dramatist. 

For some years 1 worked steadily on, play after play flowed from 
my prolific pen, success after success enhanced my reputation and 
increased my banker’s balance, but, alas! 1 soon found success did 
not bring happiness, and that the sweet feeling of hope that had 
buoyed me up when L was striving for success was changed to never- 
ending anxiety when 1 had attained it. Every reader of these lines 
who has made a reputation for himself in any branch of literature 
or art will, I am convinced, agree with me when 1 say that the 
difficulties of making that reputation are child’s play compared to 
the ceaseless labor necessary to keep it up; and at last the time came 
when, with a heavy sinking at the heart, the bitter consciousness 
slowly dawned-upon me that I was in the deplorable condition of 
the author who has written himself out. A great French philoso¬ 
pher has said; “ Ideas are like beards; men seldom have them, 
women never.” 1 can only confess that 1 was in the baldest possi¬ 
ble condition, and though 1 raked my brains tore and aft 1 could 
find nothing approaching an original idea. 

Invention is the most difficult operation of the human mind, and 
my mind resolutely refused to invent. 1 had a play to write, and 
the apparent impossibility of finding a new subject sent the iron into 
my soul. What was to be done? Should 1 hide my diminished 
head, and let the world pass on before me, or should 1 make one 
supreme effort to oil my mental machinery and start the manu¬ 
factory again? 

1 resolved upon the latter course, and on enjoying a week’s rest 
and change of scene previous td wrestling with my difficulty. Where 
should 1 go? Brighton was near, but it was a marine Strand, and 
Paris was too close to the blandishments of the Press Club. 1 had 
no time to waste in indecision. I took up the Railway ABC, 
opened it at hazard, and read where my thumb rested. “ Stratford* 
on-Avon—the birthplace of the greatest of all dramatists!” 1 ex¬ 
claimed, ” 1 will go there!” My bag was packed, the train was 
caught, and the dull sun of a wintery afternoon shed its parting rays 
upon my figuie as 1 stood outside the house where the godlike 
genius of the greatest poet the world has known first awakened into 
human life. 

When a lad, 1 was once told by my grandmother that I had a 
hole in my head where the bump of veneration should have been; but 
I think if her spirit had been hovering anywhere about as I gently 
pulled the quaint old bell that hong over the door of the poet’s house, 
slie might have considerably modified her uncomplimentary opinion*; 
and it was with feelings very much akin to those with which a de¬ 
vout person enters a church that I passed through the opened door, 
and, in the lading light, actuated by an unconscious impulse, took 
off my hat as 1 walked over the broken and uneven stone floor, and 
seated myself in the chimney-corner where Shakespeare in the earlier 
years of his life had sat, and, perhaps felt the first dawning of his 


102 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


divine genius as he gazed at the faces in the fire, and watched the 
Jong shadows dancing and playing on the wood-ribbed, plastered 
walls. 

Judging by my own feelings, I am not at all surprised at the ex¬ 
travagances of some of Shakespeare’s admirers, w ho shed tears, fall 
on their knees and kiss the floor, and even go into hysterics when 
they visit the little house in Henley Street. It is, as many of my 
readers are aware, in the charge of two maiden sisters, the Misses 
Chatlaway, daughters of a banker, whom vicissitude of fortune 
compelled" to accept a position the duties of which they fulfill with a‘ 
grace and courtesy that make these charming gentlewomen one of 
the pleasantest memories you take away with you. 

I will not attempt to describe the pleasure 1 felt while being con¬ 
ducted over the house and through the museum of Shakespearean 
relics. A more interesting and sympathetic guide it is impossible to 
conceive; and when at Iasi 1 stood in the little room and, in the 
fast-fading light, looked up at the famous picture of William Shake¬ 
speare, bound in its iion case, I. could not resist telling my friendly 
cicerone that 1 was one of the humblest followers of the same craft 
as the great master, whose genial, handsome face looked down upon 
us, and that 1 would give woilds if he would but open his lips and 
inspire me with one single happy thought. 

“ Sit here for a few minutes, rest yourself, and perhaps he will,” 
answered my kindly guide, as she placed me a quaint old Eliza¬ 
bethan chair belore the picture. ”1 must not leave you alone, it 
is against the rules, but I will wait at the door. 1 ou can forget 
that 1 am there, and while the spirit and influence of William 
Shakespeare are around you yield ycurself up to reverie and contem¬ 
plation.” 

She left me, at least 1 neither saw nor heard her, and 1 w r as alone. 
Header, I do not ask you to believe what follows. If you know me 
and are not my friend throw this down and read no" more, but if 
you are a kindred spirit read on with sympathetic interest, remem¬ 
bering only my mental state when I entered the room, and my 
strange surroundings. 

I was harassed and worn out with my last play. 1 was dejected 
and nervous about the one I had to write. Depressed and unhappy; 
painfully, miserably, aware of my own mental deficiencies, I sat 
opposite the lifelike picture of the Great Thinker, ready, like a 
literary Faust, to sell my soul for an idea. A jaundiced sun had' 
hidden himself behind the leaden curtains of the December clouds, 
the last rays of light were fading in the dusky gloom, an intense 
silence pervaded the chamber, in whose solitude an overwrought 
mind sought inspiration from the dead semblance of a great poet. 

Was it the working of a glorious spirit of that grand craft which, 
since the days of the building of the Temple of Solomon, has knit 
together the souls of men, whatsoever their state of life may be, and 
brought the lofty intellect of trie creative architect into sympathy 
with the simple mind and struggling intelligence of the hewer of 
wood and drawei of water, 1 know not. 1 only know that the 
great, unspoken wish of my heart was realized; that I closed my 
eyes in dreamy slumber, that the world 1 lived in, with its hard¬ 
hearted managers, dissatisfied actors, Utopian critics, and exacting 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


103 


public, seemed to float away in the far distance , and leave me nearly 
three centuries behind in company with William Shakespeare, who, in 
the dusky silence, stepped from the picture to the floor and welcomed me. 


CHAPTER II. 

I ha.ye had the privilege and pleasure of meeting some of our 
greatest modern poets, painters, and philosophers, but Shakespeare’s 
face was the noblest and handsomest 1 have ever seen: a pair of 
large hazel eyes, whose'bright and sparkling intelligence was only 
equaled by their kindly humor; a noble forehead, on which the 
chestnut hair lav in careless curls; a graceful mustache and beard 
that did not hide the small, sensitive mouth and white teeth; a 
countenance altogether noble as a prophet's and kindly as a saint’s. 
He had a voice rich, full, and deep, and ihe carriage of a king. 

It is impossible to describe the kindness of his voice as he invited 
me to follow him down the narrow, gloomy stairs, and the stately 
grace with which he took my arm, and led me down lienley Street. 

And here the strangest marvel of all occurred; for, as we stepped 
into the open air, our relative conditions underwent a mutual change, 
the spiritual form of the poet became corporeal and real, and by a 
sudden, strange, and inexplicable feeling of lightness 1 became aware 
that I had left my body behind me in the chair, and that only my 
ethereal form was walking beside the stately figure of my com¬ 
panion. Shakesp^ire had become human, and I had become the ghost. 

The scene, too, was changed. The Great Spirit of Time had put 
back the clock two centuries and a half, and 1 found myself 'walk¬ 
ing through Siratford-on-Avon in the reign of King James the First 
with Master William Shakespeare, who, exchanging salutations with 
the honest townspeople as we passed them, pointed out to me the 
principal characteristics of the quaint old Warwickshire town in the 
days of the Stuarts. 

“ The house you have just left,” he said, “was where 1 lived 
until 1 was old enough to think for myself, and bold enough to 
run away from home to be an actor. This,” he added, as he stopped 
at a gate anrt opened it, “ is New Place, the freehold of which 1 
bought, and where 1 settled down to end my days.” 

He took me through the hall and into the library, and after giv¬ 
ing me a seat by a blazing wood fire, seated himself opposite to me, 
folded his hands and said, “ And now, Mr. Brown, what can 1 do 
for jmu?” 

Strange to say, 1 felt no nervousness, and no fear. 1 knew in¬ 
tuitively, that I was with one whose nobility of mind and goodness 
of heart would shield me from all danger, and help me by all 
means that lay in his power. 1 told him my story plainly and 
frankly, and he listened with grave attention. 

“ Why don’t you collaborate?” he said, thoughtfully. “ Beau- 
mout and Fletcher did it very successfully.” 

“ Yes! but Beaumont and Fletcher were loyal to each other, and 
understood not only Ihe true meaning of the old maxim that ‘ Two 
heads are better than one,’ but the art of running in double harness. 



THE POET S "GHOST. 


104 

Besides, they had brains enough to believe that all the literary talent 
in the world was not locked up in one head.” 

“True,” answered Siiakespeare, “ when two men write a suc¬ 
cessful play, they both want all the credit, and it generally ends in 
making them enemies for life. Fortunately,” he added, with a 
quiet smile, ” 1 never had a collaborated, but 1 have had commen¬ 
tators and editors, and when I think of the idiotic things they’ve 
written and said about me and my plays, it makes me furious.” 

“ Of whom do you principally complain, Mr, Shakespeare?” 1 
asked. 

“ The whole regimentof them,” he replied, emphatically. “ But 
the fellow who annoyed me most was that concentration of conceit, 
David Garrick. Why, lie almost believed the plays were his, and 
they have hung up a picture in my birthplace yonder with Garrick 
embiacing my bust, in a manner very strongly suggesting that he 
had just dug me out ol oblivion. But there, all these tragedians 
are alike. They all believe they have created Shakespeare.” 

” You surely do not include our modern tragedians?” 

“ Hot to such an extent. Henry Irving lias too much brains in 
his head to be misled by his success; and Wilson Barrett’s col¬ 
laboration with his authors has taught him to respect the labors of 
the dramatist and to give him his due. A capital fellow, Wilson 
Banett, by the way*; he is the material great men are made of, and 
I liked him excessively after he had told that story of the oath to 
play Hamlet, when he spent his last sixpence to see "Charles Kean in 
a play of mine. But, ye gods! how 1 laughed when it turned out 
it was a pantomime he saw.” 

“ Do you like Wilson Barrett’s ‘ Hamlet V” 1 afked. 

“ Very much indeed,” replied Shakespeare. “ It is a correct read¬ 
ing, and it’s full of life. By^ the way, is he going to produce any 
new pieces?” 

‘‘Hot yet. When an actor-manager has a severe attack of 
Shakespearean fever, there’s not much chance for the modern 
diamatist.” 

“ Aud the epidemic is spreading,” said the poet, “ and is break¬ 
ing out in fresh theaters. I’m afraid you fellows are going to have 
a bad time of it,” he continued, as he rose and stood with his back 
to the fire. “ Y"ou see there are no authors’ fees to pay, and that 
must be a consideration with a manager. Why, look at this young 
American lady, Alary Anderson, she had to pay enormous sums to 
Mr. Gilbert for ‘ Pygmalion and Galatea,’ but she does not have to 
pay a halfpenny to me for * Romeo and Juliet.’ ” 

“ In fact, she pays nothing, and gets a better play,” I ventured 
to suggest. 

“ The admirers of Mr. Gilbert do not think so. 1 hear that they 
believe him to be my superior.” And Shakespeare laughed, as he 
turned to me with a chuckle and a "wink, and added, “ But you 
know he isn’t.” 

1 felt very much inclined to ask him what he thought of Mary 
Anderson, but refrained, as 1 was anxious to get his views on my 
own affairs, and the same thought must have presented itself to the 
poet also, for he suddenly threw himself back into his chair, find said— 
‘‘But we are not here to discuss Mary Anderson—her youth. 


105 


THE POET’S GHOST. 

beauty, and genius are beyond question—but to help .jpu, my dear 
boy. While we have been chatting, 1 have turned the**matter over 
in my mind, and 1 have a capital idea.” 

1 looked at him with an earnestness that too truly bespoke my 
anxiety, and he continued. 

“ You want a plot for a strong modern drama?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Why not use one of mine?” 

“Yours! Mr. Shakespeare?” 1 exclaimed in astonishment. 

“ Certainly. They are strong, they are full of interest, and where 
could you find better?” 

“ But your stories are known to every reader of my time.” 

“ And so they were to every reader of my time. Human nature 
has been the same since tho world began, and the complication of 
incident has altered very little. Modernize my dramas to contem¬ 
porary life and its surroundings, and you have a wide and glorious 
field of fiction before you.” 

The magnitude of the proposition startled me beyond expression, 
and my agitation was such that 1 could scarcely command my voice, 
as 1 asked him how it was to be done. 

“ It is simple enough. Take my pia> r s one by one, use the same 
dramatic motives, the same incidents, the same characters (with 
different names of course), the same plot, and adapt them to modern 
life. Write fresh dialogue, and bring them out as new and origi¬ 
nal dramas. Come, Mr. Brown,” he said, with a smile, *' do not 
look so amazed, but listen, and I will give you a lessen in dramatic 
construction.” 

And William Shakespeare, the poet, stood up by the fireside, on 
that dull December afternoon, as the deepening shadows closed 
around the room, and the flames from the wdod-fire flickered and 
danced around him, now lighting up his sparkling eyes, and then, 
as the embers sunk into a red glow throwing their rich and ruddy 
rays round his graceful figure and kind earnest face, he told me the 
story of “ Hamlet ” as a modern drama. 

“ This,” he said with a smile, “ is an entirely new and original 
drama of modern lifeentilled: 


‘“THE HIDDEN CRIME.’ 

CHARACTERS.* 


Claude Henley 

Harry . 

John Poland.. 

Horace 

Lawrence 

Rosenberg and Goldstein 
Oscar 

Mark and Bernard .. 
Irving Warner 
Gwendoline Henley 
Olivia Poland 

Gamekeepers, Sportsmen, Counti 


A Devonshire Squire. 

His Nephew. 

The Stew ard. 

A Friend of Harry. 

1 he Son of Poland. 

Two Country Gentlemen. 

A Sportsman. 

Gamekeepers. 

An Actor. 

Mother of Harry. 

The Steward’s Daughter. 

Gentlemen, Guests, Visitors, etc. 




106 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


“ The scene opens in Devonshire, on the lawn of Elsinore Hall, 
the country seat of the Henley family. At the opening of the story, 
the late John Henley, who was the owner of the estate, has died sud¬ 
denly within the last few months, and left by a will, which was 
found a few days after his death, the whole of the property to his 
only brother, Claude Henley, to the exclusion of his son, Harry 
Henley, the hero. Harry Henley is very naturally surprised that 
his father should not have allowed him to succeed to the paternal 
estates, and is also in deep grief at the sudden and unexpected death 
of his father, whom he loved with a peculiarly deep and reverent 
affection. This grief is only the more intensified when his mother, 
to the scandal of the neighborhood, and in defiance of the law, mar¬ 
ries her deceased husband’s brother (thus at a time when the De¬ 
ceased Wife’s Sister Marriage Bill is before Parliament, giving a 
peculiar and immediate interest to a popular question of the day). 
At this point of the story is introduced an old and faithful steward 
of the estate, and confidential servant of the Henley Family, named 
Poland, who has a son Lawrence, and a daughter Olivia. The son 
Lawrence, is going to Paris, and receives some excellent parting 
advice from his father—not to make strange acquaintances, to avoid 
quarreling, always to dress well, and above all, not to lend money. 
When Lawrence has gone, the old steward questions Olivia, and 
discovers that she is in love with Harry Henley, and that lie has 
avowed his affection for her; but Poland, who is afraid be might 
got into trouble and lose his situation it he allowed his daughter to 
encourage his young master, warns her that Harry's intentions may 
not be strictly honorable. 

“ Claude Henley is giving a party to celebrate his return from the 
honeymoon, and in vain joins with his wife (Harry’s mother) in en¬ 
treaties to Hairy not to give way to useless grief, but to dress and 
join the party. ‘ Harr}' replies that the clothes are but the outward 
signs of his sorrow. 

“ Claude evidently thinks that his step-son is an intolerable nuis¬ 
ance in the house, but does not like to offend his mother by turning 
him out; he therefore leaves him to what he thinks is a "sulky fit, 
and Harry, wdien left alone, bitterly reflects upon the fact that his 
mother has married his uncle, and given a party within two months 
of her husband’s death, even before the shoes w'ere old with which 
she had followed his poor father’s body, like Niobe, all tears. 

“ Harry has been educated at Oxford, and is anxious to return 
and take his degree. He has a young college chum staying with 
him, Horace, to whom he confides his sorrows, who, in return, sug¬ 
gests to him that his father might possibly have met with foul play, 
and tells him of an interview he has had with two gamekeepers, 
Mark and Bernard, who told him that they saw the late Squire Hen¬ 
ley asleep in the rustic summer-house, in "the orchard, a short time 
before his sudden death, and that they, too, suspect there is some 
thing wrong. 

“ Harry immediately cautions Horace to keep his suspicions 
to himself, and neither by innuendoes nor suggestions to allow 7 hte 
thoughts to become known, and, above all, not to be surprised at 
anything he (Hairy) might do in order to arrive at the truth, and if 
there has been foul play, to fathom it out. He adds that it may be 


THE POET'S GHOST. 


107 


necessary to put on an antic disposition, and to pretend to have 
lost his reason, in order to gain his object; and after having 
sworn Horace to secrecy, sends him away. 

It is now night, and Harry is left alone to his meditations. He 
rests himself upon a rustic seat upon the lawn, as the moon slowly 
rises above the high, thick-set hedge at the back of the garden. 
Through the long, open French-windows of the Manor House at the 
side, the bright and gleaming lights may be seen, and the laughter of 
the merry-makers is wafted* away on the evening breeze, together, 
with the music ot the “ Soldaten Lieder ” "Waltz. As Harry, over-! 
come with emotion and fatigue, sinks into a dreamy slumber, the 
voices of the revelers slowly die away. The strains of the “ Soidat- 
en Lieder” slowly change to weird and mystic music; a thick, 
black, heavy cloud overcasts the moon, and, as Harry sleeps, he 
dreams that the wood at the hack opens, he sees his father sleeping 
in the orchard, and, in the vision that opens to his dreamy gaze, 
learns how his father met his death by poison, administered by his 
brother. 

“ As the vision fades, Claude Henley comes on to the lawn, fol¬ 
lowed by his wife and the guests; as Harry simultaneously awakens 
from his dream, rises, sees him, and exclaims—“ Great God—the 
murderer of my father!” 

‘‘act the second 

takes place in the morning-room at the Manor House. Poland, the 
steward, feels it is his duty to acquaint Mr. and Mrs. Henley with the 
behavior of young Henley to his daughter, Olivia, which, to a cer¬ 
tain extent, he believes accounts tor the recent eccentricities of his 
conduct, and, in support of his theory, shows them some verses that 
Harry had formerly written to Olivia. To find out if it be so, they 
agree to send Olivia to Harry, to try and discover what has caused 
his eccentric behavior, and to conceal themselves and overhear the 
conversation. They then retire upon seeing Harry coming, who 
enters the room reading a book, and who, after evading Poland’s 
attempts to question and draw him out by his badinage, and by 
willfully mistaking him for a fishmonger, makes the old gentleman 
look extremely foolish, and sends him off. 

“ Claude Henley has also commissioned two young friends of his, 
named Rosenberg ami Goldstein, to- find out what makes Harry be¬ 
have so strangely and what is upon his mind. But Harry, penetrat¬ 
ing their object, tells them plainly that he thinks they were sent to 
pump him, and refuses to be pumped. Poland, the steward, now 
returns and informs Harry that the manager of a traveling company, 
who are performing at the theater in the neighboring town, has 
called to solicit his patronage for the benefit that is to take place on 
the Friday night. Harry, who knows the manager himself, sees 
him; and after taking a box for the benefit, asks him if he would 
like to come up to the Manor House, and give a morning perform¬ 
ance to the family and the guests on a “ fit-up ” stage erected in the 
grounds, in the same way that & fashionable performance ot ‘ As 
You Like It ’ had recently been given by certain aristocratic ama¬ 
teurs, at Coombe Wood. 

” The manager who, as usual in the provinces, is also the leading 


108 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


actor, is delighted at the proposal, and atter receiving some excellent 
suggestions as to the style of fashionable acting required, it is agreed 
that they shall play certain scenes specially adapted to the occasion 
by Harry himself, and written ifp by him. He then dismisses the 
manager, and in a soliloquy resolves that the play shall be a repre¬ 
sentation of the mode by which he believes his father was murdered. 
He will narrowly watch while it is being performed, and thus by 
means of the play awaken the conscience of his uncle. 

“ Olivia now comes to him (watched by her father and Claude 
Henley) and after speaking of their past love, and his strange forget¬ 
fulness and unkindness, returns him his presents, saying that gifts 
are of no value when the givers are unkind. Harry is at first much 
moved at the tenderness and Jove she shows, and is almost relenting 
when he accidentally sees the curtains move, and discovers that he 
is being watched. He then bitterly reproaches her for her treachery', 
and after a powerful scene finally breaks off the engagement and 
rushes off, leaving her tainting, despairing, and broken-hearted. 
Upon this effective dramatic picture the second act ends. 

“act the third. 

“ The scene represents a charming sylvan spot in the grounds of 
the Manor House, with a “ fit-up ” stage, and all tbe necessary 
scenic accessories on one side. Upon the other, seated under the 
umbrageous shade of a wide spieading chestnut-tree, agafly-dressed 
assemblage of the youth, fashion, and beauty of the neighborhood, 
headed by the host and hostess, Mr. and Mrs. Henley, near whom 
are seated Rosenberg, Goldstein, Horace, Poland, and his daughter, 
Olivia, at whose feet Harry is lying on the grass. An orchestra in 
a rustic summer-house discourses sweet music, as the servants, in 
bright-colored liveries, band round the iced champagne. Tie hum 
of gay conversation, interspersed with rippling peals of merry laugh¬ 
ter, rises as the music sinus into piano, and the whole scene is one 
of brilliance and animation. 

“ After some badinage and half playful questions as to whether 
Harry is sure there is nothing offensive in the piece about to be per¬ 
formed, and whether it has been duly licensed by the lord chamber- 
lain, the orchestra plays the opening music, and the curtain of the 
little theater rises upon the performance of the play, which consists 
of certain scenes carefully adapted to the occasion from my tragedy 
of ‘ Hamlet.’ 

“ At first Claude Henley listens to the piece with comparative in¬ 
difference, but as the play progresses his interest becomes profound; 
and when at last the crime is committed that so closety resembles his 
own, unable to control his feelings, he rises in a paroxysm of de¬ 
spair and rage, and, amid the amazement of his guests, rushes from 
tbe scene, while Harry, who has watched him with absorbing inter¬ 
est, mounts upon the stage in frenzied triumph, and ends the scene 
with an impassioned speech to the startled and astonished guests. 

“ The next scene is in the boudoir of Mis. Henley, Harry’s moth¬ 
er, who has sent for him to reason with him upon his extraordinary 
conduct to his uncle. In case he should be violent, she asks Poland 
to watch on the balcony outside the window, and to be ready in case 
she should require protection. Harry is then admitted, and wrings 


109 


THE POET’S GHOST. 

liis mother’s heart with his reproaches lor having so soon torgotten 
his father, ot whose noble nature he draws a picture, strongly in 
contrast to the base disposition of her present husband. She tries to 
escape from him, but Hairy forces her iuto a chair with such vio¬ 
lence that Poland calls out for help, and Harry, crying out that 
there is a thief in the house, seizes a gun, fires and shoots him. 
Claude Henley and the rest of the characters rush on, and upon the 
arrest of Harry for the murder, the act ends. 

** ACT THE FOURTH. 

“ Here it will be necessary, ” said Shakesperare, “ to make a slight 
alteration in the story, as an English audience would never tolerate 
in a modern drama the tragical ending of the original, and the spec¬ 
tacle at tne end of a play of four dead bodies lying on the stage. 1 
will, however, preserve foi you the same sequence of scenes and in¬ 
cidents, with only one alteration. To continue— 

“ At the opening of the next act, the old steward is dead, an in¬ 
quest has been held, and the jury, taking into consideration the 
well-known unsettled state ot Hairy Henley’s mind, the fact that 
the steward had no right to be upon the balcony at night, and that 
consequently Harry had reasonable cause to believe it was a burglar, 
have returned a verdict ot ‘death by misadventure,’ and recom¬ 
mended that Harry should be placed under some kind ot restraint. 
Pie has, therefore, been sent to a private lunatic asylum. Olivia, 
heart-broken at the death of her father at the hands of her former 
lover, has had an attack ot brain fever, and wandeis from her cham¬ 
ber into the hall, where she decorates herself with flowers. Law¬ 
rence, her brother, having been apprised of his father’s death, re¬ 
turns, and, forcing his way into the house to demand justice, takes 
his delirious, half dying sister into his arms, and in powerful lan¬ 
guage registers an oath to be revenged upon the man who, though he 
has evaded the law, shall yet be punished for having killed his fa¬ 
ther and broken his sister’s heart, and as he kneels and registers his 
vow over the senseless form of his apparent!}' dying sister, the cur¬ 
tain falls. 

“ ACT THE FIFTH 

opens upon a realistic and beautiful picture of an old English church¬ 
yard. Two rustic laborers are at work as Harry enters with Horace, 
and explains that he has escaped from the custody of the keeper, 
lie then learns that Mr. Poland, the steward, is to be buried that 
morning, and then comes an effect never yet seen upon the stage in 
a modern melodrama, namely, a rustic funeral procession with all 
its quaint and characteristic details. Harry and Lawrence meet, a 
violent scene ensues, in which Lawrence seizes Harry as the slayer 
of his father and strikes him. A scene of wild excitement follows 
as the whole of the characters on the stage take either the one side 
or the other, and a riot seems imminent as Lawrence and Harry are 
with difficulty separated and held back from each other, and the 
scene closes in. 

“ The next scene is a chamber at the Manor House, where Claude 
Henlej* enters with Lawrence and shows him how utterly hopeless 
it is for him to bring Harry to justice, and suggests that the only 


110 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


way to obtain revenge is by more subtle means. He then unfolds 
his plan. Both Harry and Lawrence are officers in the 'Seomanry, 
both have taken prizes at pievious assaults-at-arms, and at the last 
meeting they were matched against each other for a wager. It will 
be easy lor Lawrence to have a reconciliation with Harry, who is nat¬ 
urally of a frank and forgiving disposition, and Mien, at the field 
sports that are to take place" in the afternoon, it can be incidentally 
suggested that they should settle the long-standing wager. Harry, 
under such circumstances, will find it almost impossible to decline, 
and then, during the bout, Lawrence can strike Harry, apparently 
bv accident, a foul blow—and thus requite him for his father’s 
death. Lawrence, seeing no other means, consents to Claude’s pro¬ 
posal, and then takes off his sister Olivia, who has evaded her nurse 
and entered from the curtained door of her chamber in a manner 
that almost leads him to suspect that she may have overheard their 
plot. Cluade, then left alone, says that to make doubly sure of 
Harry’s death, he will take a ring he bought in Italy, the stone of 
which contains in its hollow a deadly poison, and drop it into the 
wine which Harry will probably drink at luncheon. The scene then 
changes to another effective stage picture—“ The Village Festival 
and Field Sports,” a bright and bustling scene of country life and 
gayety. Squire Ilenley, Mrs. Henley, and their party are seated 
under a marquee. After a representation of Old English Gaines, 
Harry and Lawrence appear, and the betting runs high. Claude, 
dropping his poisoned ring into the prize drinking-cup which Harry 
had won last year, invites him to drink. He, however, refuses to 
touch anything until the sports are over, but his mother, taking up 
the cup before she can be stopped by her husband, drinks to her 
son’s success. The two competitors then take their weapons and 
commence their bout, when Olivia, almost mad with excitement, 
rushes in between tnem, and crying out that she has overheard the 
plot of Lawrence and the Squire, warns Harry of his danger. Law¬ 
rence is overcome with shame and remorse as Mrs. Henley rises, 
staggers forward, and, falling, declares she has been poisoned by her 
husband, and then dying, accuses him of having, by the same 
means, killed Harry’s father. ‘ The proofs at last,’ cries Harry; 
‘ arrest that double murderer!’ Claude Henley is then handcuffed, 
and Harry, taking Olivia in his arms, says justice has at last over¬ 
taken the guilty, and that there is now peace and happiness for the 
innocent. The estates will, of course, revert to Harry, as the right¬ 
ful heir, and the curtain descends upon the picture so dear to every 
generous-hearted audience and every right-minded playwright—of 
the villain brought to justice and the hero and heroine made happy. 

“There,” said Shakespeare, “is the story of a melodrama that 
ought to run for three hundred nights.” 

“ Is it no,t rather improbable?” I asked, doubtfully. 

“ It is not more improbable than ‘ Hamlet.’ They are the same 
people in the same relative positions, and actuated by the same mo¬ 
tives. Go home, begin it at once, and it you only write the dia¬ 
logue with sufficient, literary skill you will have quite as good a 
drama as any one that has been produced for the last twenty-five 
years. Besides, reflect what a wicle field is now open to ypu, and 
what a range of subjects. You can treat ‘Othello,’ ‘Macbeth,’ 


THE POET’S GHOST. 


Ill 


‘ The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ and, in fact, the 
•whole of my plays in the same manner, and never need be worried 
again for a plot while you have a shilling volume of my works to 
choose from and modernize.” 

“ There is one question I should like to ask you, Mr. Shake¬ 
speare,” I said, diffidently. 

“ And what is that?” 

“ When there are so many abler dramatists than myself, gentlemen 
tar better qualified to do justice to such powerful subjects, why have 
you chosen me as the recipient of such unbounded favor?” 

“ Because 1 think you are the most in warn of assistance,” replied 
the poet, “ and I like to help the weaker vessel.” 

1 cannot honestly say that this i;eply altogether pleased me. 

” I don’t think 3*011 have any reason to be dissatisfied with your 
visit to Stratford-on-Avon.” he continued with a smile; “ but, be¬ 
fore leaving, 1 must caution you not to believe all you hear about 
me and my relics. 1 give you my word that half the objects they 
show you as having belonged to me. 1 never saw in my life. 1 must 
now wish you good-by. I am not fond of quoting from my own 
works, 1 think it egotistical, ami in bad taste, but, in the words of 
the Ghost, ‘ Adieu, remember me.’ ” 

As he uttered the last words, his voice seemed to float away in 
the far distance, the room itself and its solid surroundings seemed 
to melt and dissolve like the changing pictures of a diorama, and 
in another moment 1 awakened into consciousness, and found 
myself seated in the quaint old high-backed Elizabethan chair, 
opposite the portrait of the poet, and heard the gentle voice of 
my kind cicerone say: 

“ I am afraid you have been asleep, sir?” 

“ 1 am afraid 1 have,” 1 replied, as 1 rose to my feet, and looked 
round in a bewildered manner. 

” Have you been dreaming?” 

“ Yes, 1 have been in the company of William Shakespeare, and L 
have had a lesson in the art of play-writing I shall not readily for¬ 
get from 

The Poet’s Ghost, 


i 

T 


THE END. 


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MUNRO'S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—POCKET EDITION. 

[continued from fourth page.] 


no. PRICE. 


255 The Mystery. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 15 

256 Mr. Smith: A Part of His Life. By 

L. B. Walford. 15 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Sergeant 10 

258 Cousins. By L. B. Walford. 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A Sequel 

to “ The Count of Monte-Cristo,” 

By Alexander Dumas. 10 

200 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker. 10 

201 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson.... 20 

202 The Count of Monte-Cristo. Parti. 

By Alexander Dumas... 1. 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. Part II. 

By Alexander Dumas. . 20 

208 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

264 Pi6douehe, A French Detective. By 

Fortune Du Boisgobey. 10 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Af¬ 

fairs and Other Adventures. By 
William Black. 15 

266 The Water-Babies. A Fairy Tale for 

a Land-Baby. By the Rev. Charles 
Kingsley. 10 

267 Laurel Vane; or. The Girls’ Con¬ 

spiracy. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller. 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Miser's 

Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller. 20 

269 Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller. 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Parti. By Eu¬ 

gene Sue. 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. By 

Eugene Sue. 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I. By 

Eugene Sue. 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. By 

Eugene Sue. 20 


272 The Little Savage. Captain Marryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The Waiting on 

an Island. By M. Betham-Ed wards 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, Prin- 
0 cess of Great Britain and Ireland. 

Biographical Sketch and Letters... 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By Flor¬ 


ence Marryat (Mrs. Francis Lean).. 10 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood. A Man c^jHis Word. 

By W. E. Norris.. 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hayden 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of Society. 

By Mrs. Forrester. 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Mary Cecil 

Hay. 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George MacDonald 15 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”.10 

284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

285 The Gambler’s Wife. 20 


[continued on last 


no. PRICE. 

286 The Iron Hand. By F. Warden. 20 

287 At War With Herself. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By the au¬ 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her True 

Light. By a “ Brutal Saxon ”. 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 

291 Love's Warfare. By. the author of 

“ Dora Thorne”. 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. Bj r the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

294 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne”. 10 

295 A Woman's War. By the author of 

“Dora Thorne”. 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns. B}' the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ”.10 r> 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Margaret 

Veley. 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride from 

the Sea. By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne ”. 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of Love. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne .. 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 10 

302 The Blatcliford Bequest. By Hugh 

Conway. 10 

303 Inglede w House, and More Bitter than 

Death. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne”. 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ”. 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwendo¬ 

line’s Dream. B} r the author of 
“Dora Thorne”. 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a Day. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other Love. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne ”.. 10 

308 Beyond Pardon. 20 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper. 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. By R. 

H. Dana, Jr. 20 

312 A Week in Killarney. By “The 

Duchess”. .* . 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. Cashel 

Hoey. 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon. 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline Rodney’s 

Secret. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller. 20 

317 By Mead and Stream. By Charles 

Gibbon. 20 


PAGE OF COVER.] 








































































MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—POCKET EDITION, 

[continued from third page of cover.] 


318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources of the 

Susquehanna. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper.20 

319 Face to Face: A Fact in Seven Fa- 

bies. By R. E. Francillon. 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By David 

Christie Murray. 10 

321 The Prodigals: And Their Inherit¬ 

ance. By Mrs. Oliphaut. 10 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story. 10 

323 A Willful Maid. 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter Besant. 10 

325 The Portent. By George Macdonald. 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance for 

Men and Women. By George Mac¬ 
donald. 10 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From the 

German of E. Werner.) By Chris¬ 
tina Tyrrell. 20 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. (Trans¬ 

lated from the French of Fortune 
Du Boisgobey. First half__ 20 

329 The Polish 'Jew. (Translated from 

the French by Caroline A. Merighi.) 

By Erckmann-Chatrian. 10 

330 May Blossom; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee. 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price. 20 

332 Judith Wynne. A Novel. 20 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes from the 

Life of a Private Pupil. By Frank 
E. Smedley. 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. By Har¬ 

riett Jay. 10 

335 The White Witch. A Novel. 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power.. 20 


337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam 

Graeme of Mossgray, Including 
Some Chronicles of the Borough of 
Fendie. By Mrs. Oliphaut. 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney. 10 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. By 

Mrs. Alexander. 10 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little Beauty 

of Red Oak Seminary. By Laura 
Jean Libbey. 20 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s Eve. 

By “The Duchess”. 10 

343 The Talk of the Town. By James 

Payn..20 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green.” By 

Basil. 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant. 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan Muir.. 10 

347 As Avon Flow's. By Henry Scott Vince 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing Ro¬ 

mance. By Haw ley Smart. 20 

349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper.20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By George 

Meredith. 10 

351 The House on the Moor. By Mrs. 

Oliphant. 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Garrett_ 10 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Legend of 

Montrose. By Sir Walter Scott. 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story of 

New York Tw'enty Years Ago. By 
John Brougham. 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. Norris. 

The Princess Dagomar of Poland. 

By Heinrich Felbermann. 10 


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